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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28594698">here to stay</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/celicalms/pseuds/celicalms'>celicalms</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Character Study, Discussions of mental illness, F/M, Found Family, Gen, Islamophobia, New York, Nonbinary Character, Queerphobia, Racism, Slow Burn, Xenophobia, electoral politics is cursed yet here I am</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 07:00:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>24,703</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28594698</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/celicalms/pseuds/celicalms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s no place Claude von Riegan would rather be during election year than in the city of New York. This immigration lawyer has had enough with establishment politics, and in an act of spontaneity, he decides to run for office as a progressive Democrat. Claude recruits the help of critically-acclaimed campaign manager Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd to go up against some of the most powerful Democrats in Congress: the Gloucester family. Individuals from seemingly opposite worlds are brought together in what will be the most contentious election in New York’s history.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cyril &amp; Claude von Riegan, Cyril/Lysithea von Ordelia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>The Three Houses AU Bang</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Fire Within</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Artwork is done by the incredible Raimy! Thank you so much for reading my story, working with my ideas, and bonding with me over our shared experiences. </p><p>HERE TO STAY is the culmination of my experiences as a Bangladeshi Muslim in the US.  This is a story about what it means to be American, what it means to be un-American. I take a lot of pride in who I am, but it wasn't always this way. Khalid and Cyril similarly grapple with their identities, and where they belong. To quote Riz Ahmed: “Maybe the home we’re looking for is in these stories, and in these words.”</p><p>I have included some general tags/warnings for themes I will discuss in my story, and before each chapter, I will add additional content warnings as I see fit. Please take care when reading.</p><p>This is a Bangladeshi story at its core, and I'd like to be intentional about who my audience is. As a result, I will not include footnotes or translations. If you are curious about a particular reference, however, I encourage you to ask me about it and I'd be happy to explain. </p><p>I've also made a <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5qKblWEsQOtnfwX53IeWnK?si=Ovv2CLJLT16lZRaJeSD1ig">Spotify playlist</a> if you're interested, with songs referenced throughout the story, quoted in chapter titles, and outlining a general progression of the story. </p><p>I hope you're as excited to go on this journey as I am. It's #OurTurnNow!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <em>“What would you do if you knew you couldn’t change the world? I would strive to anyway.” —Carlos Maza</em>
  </p>
</div><p>Claude is an expert people-watcher.</p><p>He opts for a seat closest to the window of this coffee shop so he can gaze idly at the New Yorkers passing by. Claude’s face is close to the cold glass, gently fogging and clearing with each breath he takes. The game’s objective is to assess people as quickly as possible based on their gait, clothing, and facial expressions. No one wins the game. No one loses, either. It serves no purpose other than a mental exercise, Claude likes to believe.</p><p>Or he’s doing this to divert himself from checking his cell phone for the hundredth time, the screen unlocking and immediately opening to a LinkedIn profile he’s seared into his retinas.</p><p>“Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd…” Claude murmurs, the name wholly unfamiliar on his tongue. He trips over the syllables, rolling the name in his mouth like hard candy. He clumsily tries the name a couple more times before settling on an acceptable pronunciation. Acceptable, that’s a word Claude has become well-acquainted with. An old friend who he can’t seem to stop running into. “Acceptable” is what taught Claude to shape-shift, either by shrinking himself or making his presence painfully obvious. Disappear when they don’t want you, reappear when they need you.</p><p>He drums his fingers lazily against the table, creating a warm rhythm he can feel vibrating through his arms. The empty cup and plate make a high-pitched purr with the slightest movement, and the crumbs dance on the plate’s surface.</p><p>Claude looks to the window again, and he can barely make out the sky between the towering buildings. The concrete jungle can get claustrophobic, and Claude wishes he didn’t have to take a train to see the gorgeous autumn foliage in Central Park. The leaves do not die gracefully, no, they burst into flames and make themselves known before closing their scene and collapsing to the floor. The end of one era and onto another. They will not go down without a fight. Claude smiles to himself at the imagined spectacle, and promises to visit the park before the season ends.</p><p>Gravity begs Claude to close his eyes, and he wishes they’d brighten up this damn coffeehouse—it’s gentrified enough with the rustic accents and the touristy location, no need for the moody lighting—when a lumbering figure enters Claude’s peripheral vision, jolting him awake. Comparing him to the LinkedIn photo, there’s no mistake. The tall blonde man looks confusedly between his phone and the signage, and he paces briskly up and down the block checking the other shops before returning to the coffee place. Claude sits awkwardly, flipping his phone over so his screen doesn’t distract him from what’s coming.</p><p>At last, the door to the coffeehouse opens and Claude feels the gust of autumn’s wind nip at his exposed skin. Dimitri is certainly dressed for the weather though, possibly a little overdressed, as his body is buried under layers of coats and scarves and furry embellishments. He squints as he scans the room, and then his eyes fall on the smaller brown man just a few feet from the entrance.</p><p>Claude instinctively rubs the angle of his jaw, running his fingertips lightly over his neatly trimmed beard. It’s out of nervousness, but Claude’s practiced the motion so many times that it gives off a rather refined, lost-in-thoughts appearance. Dimitri and his coat fortress cautiously approach Claude, and he leans in a tad too close for Claude’s liking to properly inspect him.</p><p>“Claude! It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m not too late, am I?” Dimitri outstretches a leather gloved hand, and Claude takes his hand, immediately regretting the gesture. Dimitri’s grip suffocates his circulation and Claude tries not to visibly wince.</p><p>“Terribly so, Dimitri. I’ve waited eons for you.”</p><p>Dimitri dips his head slightly and swings his checkered blanket scarf off his neck. “My apologies. I’m not the best at finding my way around.”</p><p>“That was a joke. You didn’t keep me waiting...for too long,” Claude smirks. He motions for Dimitri to sit, inviting over one of the baristas to take his order.</p><p>“Chamomile tea is fine, thank you.” Dimitri begins shedding his outerwear and slinging it behind his chair.</p><p>At first glance, Dimitri can appear rather brutish. His shoulders are built like a wall, and he is an even more hulkish tower when he stands. The man can’t be bothered to comb his hair properly, opting for a half-ponytail to get some of the blonde mess out of his crystal, cold blue eyes.</p><p>But any political pundit knows Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd is not to be scoffed at. He was Sylvain Gautier’s campaign manager in the last election cycle, running one of the most highly anticipated races of the year as a democratic socialist. Sylvain had the audacity to challenge the Senate seat held by his older brother Miklan, an establishment Democrat and a career politician, and Sylvain <em>won</em>. If Dimitri isn’t strategy in motion, Claude doesn’t know what is.</p><p>“So, Dimitri. You’ve made quite a name for yourself in the last midterm elections,” Claude leans back and rests his arm on the back of his chair coolly.</p><p>“It would be an exaggeration to position myself at the helm of Sylvain’s victory. But, I am glad to have learned so much working with him. The race was certainly...unconventional.” Claude’s eyes flicker to Dimitri’s fidgeting hands. He is toying with the fringe of his blanket scarf, too long to hang from the chair, and instead spilling into Dimitri’s lap, peeking over the corner of the table.</p><p>“Oh? And what does that mean to you?”</p><p>“I’m not aware of how closely you followed the campaign, so forgive me if you know this already. Sylvain’s charisma makes him a born politician. He would have without a doubt become a senator, in due time. Miklan would hold the seat until he grew tired of politics, and the Gautier family name would have been enough to secure Sylvain a win in Miklan’s stead,” Dimitri brings the teacup to his lips and tips it slightly.</p><p>“But he didn’t wait his turn,” Claude remarks.</p><p>“Precisely. So politics becomes a family affair, if it wasn’t already.”</p><p>Sylvain’s election wasn’t just about people versus power. It was about an heir’s unwillingness to subject himself to fate, and so he wrestled himself free of it. He is not a senator by virtue of name, but by blazing his own path to office, the embers inevitably burning bridges.</p><p>
  <em>Somehow, I understand why Dimitri answered my call.</em>
</p><p>“And how did you find working on the campaign, Dimitri?” Claude leaves the question open, not swaying Dimitri in one particular direction over another.</p><p>“I found the experience rewarding, yet leaving something to be desired. There’s a factor of familiarity I had to manage, as Sylvain and I attended boarding school together. Have you heard of Faerghus Academy, by any chance?” <em>Heard of it,</em> Claude thinks, his facial expression unflinching. <em>Boy, every upper-class suburban family on the East Coast would kill for a chance to attend there.</em></p><p>“Yeah, I know a bit about it.”</p><p>Dimitri nods. “I grew up with him, so we knew each other intimately...you can see how this could be cause for conflict. It was best that I left the team after the election, to give Sylvain room to start anew.” He takes another sip of his tea, and Claude catches the glint of jewelry bounce off his finger. Of <em>course</em> he has a class ring from Columbia.</p><p>“It shouldn’t be too much trouble for him to find a new political strategist. It seems as though every day I hear of a new campaign launching.” Dimitri chuckles lightly. Claude hopes Dimitri doesn’t notice his eyes narrow a fraction of a millimeter at the offhand comment. Does he mean to imply that Claude’s decision to run is on a whim? This isn’t some vanity run to flaunt his legal expertise, or an on-demand political drama. Is that really what the political elite think of upstart candidates? What’s it like to rub shoulders with those who have walked the halls of Capitol Hill, he wonders bitterly. What’s it like to not know a world of anger, of oppression.</p><p>To comment on it would not be “acceptable.” So Claude holds his tongue.</p><p>“But enough about me. This is about you and your campaign. Tell me what motivated you to run.” Dimitri takes the end of his scarf in his hands again and fiddles with it mindlessly.</p><p>“Tell me what <em>you</em> know about me,” Claude volleys the question back to Dimitri, flashing him a mysterious smile. He keeps tabs on the general perception of “Claude von Riegan.” What do the people have to say about him? Claude is the type of person to search his name incognito to check what results appear at the top, and he’s done his best to keep his online image immaculate, scrubbing any hint of social deviance from the internet. Or at least, what “they” consider social deviance.</p><p>“Ah, a test of some sort? To see how prepared I am to take on this position? Very well.” Dimitri clears his throat. “Claude von Riegan. You are presently an immigration lawyer, working primarily with refugee cases. Your most notable case reshaped asylum-seeking criteria, expanding the definition to include individuals from marginalized genders and sexualities fleeing political unrest.”</p><p>Claude’s biography sounds so polished coming from a seasoned consultant like Dimitri. When Claude thinks back on that case, he remembers only the caffeine-induced insomnia, the 100-hour work weeks, and the unshakeable feeling of total incompetence. He recalls thrashing his way through the muddy darkness of legality, bureaucracy, jargon, but to his client? He was the flame leading the way to the other side, to freedom. It takes only a single candle to light the path. And Claude’s work ever paying off, ever crossing the minds of big-shots in the policy world seemed unreachable.</p><p>“Regarding your platform, I was unable to find much. You’re not very outspoken...publicly, that is. But if you are running for Congress, I suspect that your community-building is conducted outside of the spotlight.” Ever so perceptive, this guy. “So...have I proven my worth? As a competent campaign manager?” Dimitri asks eagerly.</p><p>As if proving one’s worth is a one-time event. As if Dimitri is the one who needs Claude’s approval.</p><p>“A splendid job, Your Kingliness.” Claude air-motions playing a trumpet and mimics a random, vaguely regal-sounding melody. Dimitri shakes his head, declining to accept the praise.</p><p>Instead, Dimitri directly asks him about his most valued policies, like focusing a laser pointer directly on Claude’s chest. Claude is sure that he could deflect for a little longer, so he could gather more observations on his new teammate, but there is something so disarming about Dimitri’s easy smile that makes Claude give in. He starts with a soft ball: immigration reform. It seems obvious that an immigration lawyer would want sweeping changes to the way the country handles foreigners, but Claude is testing the waters. Where will Dimitri draw the line? What will set him off, what will it take for Dimitri to say no to his radical policies? Claude keeps pushing, yet Dimitri is silent, listening so intently as to drink every last one of his words. Racial justice. Medicare for All. Climate change reform. Tuition-free public college.</p><p>Dimitri has exhausted the policies out of him, with not a single argument or complaint. Now it’s Claude’s turn to ask for Dimitri’s approval.</p><p>“Thoughts?” Claude exhales, shrugging casually and stretching his legs underneath the table.</p><p>“You have very big dreams. I like that about you already,” Dimitri nods, his eyes squinting as he smiles.</p><p>His hair tie loosens slightly at the motion, releasing a few stray golden locks, and Claude wonders if Dimitri’s effortlessly wavy hair is natural or a product of preparation. Claude’s careful responses come easy to him, after a lifetime of navigating tricky interpersonal situations. His perception is sharp not by choice but by demand, and he wonders why he can’t get a good reading on the other man. Is Dimitri really who he says he is?</p><p>“Now don’t go agreeing with me just to stay on my good side, alright? A good campaign manager should challenge their candidate if they think it’s for the better.” Claude gives Dimitri a wink for added charm. Many are content if they are lent the illusion of authority. Claude has no intention of taking orders from Dimitri. Claude will warm him up just enough to extract what he needs from him and send him on his way, without Dimitri ever realizing a thing about Claude. After all, that’s what it’ll take to win the election.</p><p>“Here is my first challenge for you then. I’d like for you to look for a field and political director. We should run a tight ship, but I trust your judgment, Claude.” Claude fights the urge to react in real-time, keeping a straight face as Dimitri practically hands him command of the campaign.</p><p>“I’ll be on the lookout, then.” Claude simply replies with an even tone. Dimitri starts rearranging his outerwear in his lap, still playing with the fringe of his scarf.</p><p>“In the meantime, I’ll draft a tentative schedule of events we can attend for the next month. I’m thinking about university events at first, but we’ll branch out as time goes on. You seem to be a good talker, think you can do that for me?”</p><p>“Sure I can,” Claude smirked, exuding an air of bravado. He couldn’t tell if Dimitri’s words were the truth or just flattery. Claude accepts compliments in the way that a brown kid carries himself at a prep school. People are friendly enough, sure, but they are all in on some joke that Claude isn’t privy to. A secret that has been handed down from generation through generation, through legacy admissions and eating clubs and residential colleges. Claude is smart and handsome and charming but only ironically.</p><p>The blonde man rises from his chair, fully fitted in his winter ensemble. Dimitri doesn’t shake Claude’s hand again, instead giving a curt nod and leaving the coffeehouse wordlessly. Did he notice Claude’s pained expression from before? He hopes his performance wasn’t too shoddy for a first impression.</p><p>Claude brings his face close to the window once again, watching as the tails of Dimitri’s coat whip in the wind like a dying flame. He catches the last of his campaign manager’s silhouette as he is smothered by the crowd. Yes, this is one man who will require much more observation to understand.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://twitter.com/celicalms/status/1355592584601726983">retweet here</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Homecoming</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Claude’s heart aches for that normalcy, of being “just” Claude, and he can always visit a certain favorite person here in Queens to return to that, if only for a short while.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Parking is always a nightmare in the city, but it feels like less of a nuisance knowing that he is in Queens.</p><p>Claude drives street by street and watches the onnings shift from English letters to Bengali ones, and though he cannot read a single word, they bring familiarity, a nostalgia for a place he has never known. To the people of Queens, their homelands seem like distant memories, and reconstructing sacred spaces here is an attempt to bridge the gap spanning continents.</p><p>Here, Claude’s shoulders feel lighter, the indescribable tightness in his chest relaxes. He is reminded of the release of tension after unhooking his chest binder, memories long banished to his adolescence. Here, he doesn’t have to “be” “Claude”—he simply <i>is</i>, no matter how he presents himself. Here, Claude is just another brown boy who catches your eye at the street corner’s deli, or entertains the aunties after jummah, or peruses the fashion boutiques on weekend afternoons. Even his car is nondescript, immigrant-chic: a black Toyota Camry, the same as everyone else’s. Claude’s heart aches for that normalcy, of being “just” Claude, and he can always visit a certain favorite person here to return to that, if only for a short while.</p><p>Claude approaches the entrance to the apartment building and skims the doorbells for the number saved to his phone. He pushes hard against the grimy buzzer, stiff from disuse, and he grimaces at his hand, roughly wiping it on his side. <i>Rustic,</i> Claude humors himself. It isn’t long before the door swings forward and Claude is met with a shorter brown man.</p><p>“Cyril, assalamualaikum! How have you been, brother?” Claude shifts his paper bag carefully to not spill as he goes in for a hug. </p><p>“Walaikum salam, Khalid bhai. I’m doing good alhamdulillah! You should come in, it’s getting colder outside.” Cyril tugs on Claude, shielding him from the wind, and Claude reluctantly obliges. </p><p>“Alright, alright. I can’t stay for too long though. Just here to pick up some more documents for your proceedings and I’ll be on my way. Do you have them with you?” Claude grows increasingly amused as Cyril leads him up the stairwell, seemingly not hearing a word he’s said. </p><p>“Yeah, the papers. I’ve got them in my apartment. We should go get them.” Claude smirks at Cyril’s response. Bangla men have a knack for being stubborn, but Cyril is surely the champion in Claude’s books. He can’t help but crack a smile at the antics of it all. The game of being a host or hostess is so silly, so theatrical, yet so endearing. Bangladeshis are always trying to be a step ahead of their friends, whether by digging for the juiciest piece of chicken to serve their guests, providing an endless oasis of tea, or racing to pay the bill at restaurants. </p><p>Both reach the top of the stairs and the door to Cyril’s place. As he fiddles with the keys, he glances down at Claude’s unremarkable-looking bag. </p><p>“Whatcha got there?” </p><p>“Oh, Cyru...I brought you some mishti, since today is your birthday.” Cyril’s eyes widen.</p><p>“What! Did you get it from the place down the block? Seriously, you didn’t have to.” The door clicks open, and Cyril motions for Claude to come inside. Claude doesn’t budge.</p><p>“Nah, I brought it from the Bronx. You remember Premium Sweets? I took you there once.”</p><p>“Yeah, ‘course I remember. You spent money on the good stuff for me? Khalid bhaiya, you should stay for some chaa. I was just about to make some anyways, and chaa’s no fun when you drink it alone. Unless you’re busy of course, I won’t keep you.” </p><p>Claude shrugs a little, nodding his head, mulling over the idea. He’s impressed by the argument, the subtle backtrack at the end giving him a way out if he wanted. Claude never passes up on a chance to dote on his little brother. So he decides he’ll bite.</p><p>“Well, it would go perfectly with the mishti so...I suppose I can stay a bit.” Cyril holds back a smile, knowing he’s won Claude over, and Claude smiles back reflexively. Who could say no to Cyril? </p><p>Immediately Claude is enveloped by the earthy aromas of the apartment. Claude closes his eyes and drinks in the scents, and if he focuses enough, he can taste the distinct shades of holud, morich, dhoina, and jeera. The tanginess of the holud blends smoothly with the warmth of the morich and sharp, fragrant dhoina and jeera. Cyril has clearly been cooking all afternoon. But on a weekday? He’s usually busy running classes and events at his masjid, Masjid Assalam. </p><p>Claude is drawn to the smell and wanders into Cyril’s kitchen, but stops in the middle of what Claude imagines looks like the backroom of a decently popular catering business. Every possible countertop is occupied by aluminum trays of food, and the sink is cluttered with dishes and utensils, the aftermath of this cooking frenzy. </p><p>“Cyril, what is with all this food? Are you planning on feeding a small village?” Claude calls to the foyer, and Cyril finishes hanging up their coats to join him. </p><p>“Well, sorta. Tomorrow is jummah, and the folks there wanted to throw a little luncheon for my birthday. So I wanted to chip in.” </p><p>“‘Chip in?’ It’s a celebration for <i>you</i>, they shouldn’t be letting you do all this! Wallahi Cyril, soon enough you’ll become one of the gossiping aunties who cooks for the masjid every week and asks if you still wake up for Fajr prayer.” </p><p>Cyril looks away, embarrassed.</p><p>“C’mon bhaiya, it’s not like that. Y’know everyone there is trying to get by. And ever since the masjid’s gotten attention, I’ve been able to make a little extra, so I wanna help everyone out.” Cyril leans against the doorframe, averting his gaze and crossing his arms. </p><p>Claude quirks a half-smile, eyeing an open path to the small tornado in Cyril’s sink. </p><p>“In that case, you shouldn’t have a problem with me cleaning this place up. You might know how to cook, but you’re still a bachelor,” he winks, and Cyril’s eyebrows knot in confusion.</p><p>Claude lunges for the sink before Cyril can intervene and slips his dish gloves on. Cyril groans. </p><p>“You can’t make tea if your cups aren’t clean.” Claude reasons.</p><p>“If you’re gonna do all the dishes, you might as well stay for dinner,” Cyril huffs, trying to get another win in.</p><p>“And how did you arrive at <i>that</i> conclusion?” Claude asks incredulously.</p><p>“Well, are you coming to jummah tomorrow? I would’ve seen you then.” Cyril’s question is met with only the soft hiss of the running water. Claude’s eyes are fixated on a stubborn calcification of gunk. “Khalid bhaiya, nobody will mess with you, especially since I’m around. This place is different. Way different from Central, at least.”</p><p>Claude understands this, on an objective level, but the thought of attending <i>any</i> masjid makes that familiar tightness in his chest return, and he wishes the tension didn’t find him here in his sanctuary. He avoids religious spaces the way Muslims avoid dogs, only attending on Eids or out of respect for others, like at janazas. He so desperately wants to believe that what Cyril is saying is true, but he can’t shake the discomfort yet. For now, Cyril is his spiritual home. Without the masjid. </p><p>“And how do you expect to go to Saudi Arabia with me if you can’t come to the masjid? You know you have to pray five times a day surrounded by conservatives on hajj, right.” </p><p>Claude’s shoulders stiffen at the image, and his grip tightens around the edge of the dish so strongly he feels it could shatter in his hands.</p><p>“That’s different.” </p><p>Claude refuses to elaborate.</p><p>The corners of Cyril’s mouth quirk upward, and he almost loses his bluff. “Since you’re not going to jummah, you have no choice but to stay for dinner.” Claude knows he’s backed himself into a corner with this one. Extremely clever play, Claude thinks as he finally rips the greasy bit off the plate. </p><p>Round two, Cyril wins again.</p><p>“Fine. It’s rude to refuse things purchased with zakat anyways,” Claude replies playfully with a huff, pretending to be unbothered. Only the ghost of that disquieting feeling remains as Claude continues scrubbing away.</p><p>“So, what have you been up to at the masjid, Cyril?” Claude knows that if Cyril has nothing to do, he will find something that needs doing. Claude can’t blame him though, because this masjid wouldn’t even exist if it weren’t for Cyril. </p><p>“Lotsa stuff to do. We’re planning a vigil for Trans Day of Remembrance, and we’re expecting the press to come, so I gotta make sure things run smoothly. We also wanna do more interfaith events, but I’m still getting to know people, so I need to figure that out...”</p><p>Despite Cyril’s unease, Claude hums in approval. “Assalam will be the first masjid to hold a trans-friendly event like that. You don’t see that every day.”</p><p>“Yeah, that’s why I need to make sure it’s good,” Cyril sighs.</p><p>Cyril curls into himself, and although they’re almost equal in height, Claude only now fully realizes how small Cyril looks at the end of the day. After Cyril’s court case became publicized, every local news outlet wanted to get in on this new, flashy cultural beat. He fielded interview after interview, knowing it would bring attention to the masjid, and sure enough, funds soon followed. Claude knows this isn’t the worst of what Cyril has faced, but there’s no denying the toll it takes on the body. Constantly being prodded to perform, like an animal in a cage. Constantly being asked to dredge up your traumas under the relentless, peering eye. </p><p>Haven’t they seen enough?</p><p>“I take it you’re not keen on reporters coming to the event,” Claude interprets. </p><p>Cyril gently rests his head against the doorframe. “I’d hate it if people figured I wasn’t up for talking. It’d look bad on everyone else.”</p><p>“You know you could redirect them to me, right? I’m always ready to field a puff piece about a gay mosque.” Cyril exhales amusedly at that, and Claude mischievously blows a few floating bubbles in Cyril’s direction. </p><p>Assalam is not a “gay mosque” and Cyril isn’t a gay man. But how are they supposed to expect nuance from publications that don’t know the difference between Aleppo and Damascus, between “Muhammadins” and “Hindoos?” The headline “Bisexual Non-Cisgender-Man Creates Gender-Inclusive Masjid” just won’t bring the clicks rolling in.</p><p>“C’mon, you know that’s what they think of us. ‘Wow, those backwards brown people are finally meeting us in the 21st Century! Love is love!’” Claude says in the most suburban white voice he can muster.</p><p>Cyril shoos the suds away, laughter bubbling up from his chest and illuminating his tired face. </p><p>“Maybe I’ll take you up on that, but you’ve done enough for me already. Like look—the dishes are done. Challo, let’s eat.” Cyril dries off two plates with a paper towel and hands one to Claude. Claude stares blankly at Cyril as he shuffles around the small kitchen; he <i>knows</i> that’s not what Cyril means by “doing enough.” But Cyril has moved on from the conversation. </p><p>Cyril gently lifts the aluminum foil off each container, folding it back just enough to peak at the contents. The “ssshhh” of the bending foil is music that cannot be translated, and Claude is salivating at the sound. </p><p>Come to think of it, he hasn’t eaten much of anything all day. When he’s not working at his law firm, he’s in phone calls with Dimitri brainstorming strategy and logistics and a million other campaign-related things Claude has never heard of. “Literature” apparently means pamphlets and brochures. Claude didn’t know what phone-banking entailed until a few hours ago. Politics is an entirely different language that Claude needs to learn, with the shortest possible turnaround time. </p><p>As Cyril peels back the foil, he methodically explains each of the food items and tells Claude about the members of the masjid who like and dislike them. He knows their life stories by heart, sharing funny incidents during jummah circle or poignant moments in their times of hardship. Claude tries to follow along, but he’s more intrigued by Cyril’s animated movements, how he waves his serving spoon in the air and details masjid drama. </p><p>Cyril’s an astute young man. He’s managed to balance the desires of so many individuals, with sometimes conflicting personalities, so that Assalam can stand independently and as a united front. Cyril has hosted so many thought-provoking and fun events, tapping on each attendee’s unique strengths. Claude fondly remembers a cultural function in which Cyril recruited members of the masjid to perform whatever they were interested in. The songs, dances, or slam poetry didn’t have to be Islam-specific, but it gave the group a space to be themselves. Even those who weren’t as inclined to take the stage contributed in their own ways, by designing the interior decorations or preparing a multi-course meal for the show. Whatever the talent, Cyril was determined to create a place for everyone.</p><p>Things weren’t always this way, though. When Cyril first arrived, he was timid. Jumpy. And lonely. Claude remembers Cyril confessing, teary-eyed, that the only people he spoke to were the uncle running the bodega, the dry-cleaning guy, and Claude. Sure, they still do everything together, but Cyril has become respectable in his own right. He doesn’t sulk around like he used to. He doesn’t try to keep a low-profile, switching out unremarkable t-shirts for his own hip fusion of Bangla and Western fashion. Maybe one win is all it takes to change someone’s disposition, but Claude doesn’t want to give himself so much credit for Cyril’s growth. Cyril can hold his own ground now, and he doesn’t need Claude to come running to his defense.</p><p>Cyril acts like he keeps his head down and doesn’t talk to anyone (which is somewhat true; Claude constantly eggs on him to get out there and meet people), but from the few Islamic events Claude has attended, he’s seen how Cyril can command presence. When he calls for the attention of the congregation, they listen, not because they see him as authority but because they hold him in high regard. And while Claude doesn’t want to burden Cyril any more than he already has, what with him constantly entertaining his visits and putting up with Claude’s schemes, with the right training...Cyril could easily—</p><p>A hefty weight in his hands interrupts Claude’s thoughts. He has to stop Cyril from putting too much on his plate, each time bursting into a half-serious squabble. He also points to the fresh salad mix and makes the same “salat” joke he’s cracked quite possibly every time he has dinner with Cyril, and he is met with a generous eye-roll. </p><p>They finally settle down to eat and all conversation stops. The first few minutes of dinner are met with complete silence. Each bite introduces a new shade to the palate, and Claude focuses intently on the flavors. Claude is always in a rush to get from one place to the next, and he usually mixes all the meat curries and vegetables together for ease of swallow, but in this moment, in this home, he can soothe his nerves. Complete serenity. Shanti.</p><p>After a couple of minutes, Cyril chirps up and asks what he thinks, and Claude cannot bring himself to shut up about how satisfied he is with the dinner. Claude stretches his limbs like a sleepy cat and sheepishly concedes that he’s happy Cyril convinced him to stay. The younger man smiles to himself, glowing from the praise.</p><p>“Khalid bhaiya, it’s been so long since we’ve last done this. You’ve been busy lately, what have you been doing? You got a big case or somethin’?” </p><p>“No, I’m tying up some loose ends for my current work and not taking on any new cases.” Claude hesitates, looking up at Cyril who’s gnawing at a chicken bone. He wants to take the plunge and tell him. He wants Cyril to reassure him, tell him that the choice he’s making is the right one, and that he isn’t completely out of his mind. </p><p>“I’m actually running for Congress.” </p><p>Cyril stops chewing and furrows his eyebrows. He spits out a jagged fragment. </p><p>“Congress of what?”</p><p>“The House of Representatives, for our district.”</p><p>“So... Congress Congress.” Cyril replies dryly. </p><p>Claude’s mouth is dry too, and his lips stick together, rendering him unable to speak. He feels suspended in freefall, eyeing Cyril closely, concocting a million scenarios in his head as to what Cyril could be thinking about him. Of all of the audacious things Cyril has seen Claude attempt, both in and out of the courtroom, this has got to be the most daring of them all. </p><p>“Isn’t Congress a bit much? If you haven’t already noticed, Gloucester kinda runs things around here.”</p><p>How does Cyril know about Lorenz Gloucester? Other than the fact that they both live in this district.</p><p>“You sound like you’ve got history with him. What’s the story?”</p><p>Cyril sighs deeply and rises from his seat to take their plates. Claude follows him into the kitchen. </p><p>“Lorenz gave me trouble when I founded Masjid Assalam,” Cyril says, gritting his teeth.</p><p>Cyril had written a simple letter to all the local elected officials inviting them to the opening of the masjid. A part of it was to bring some credibility to his organization, but in reality it was a peace offering, a chance to invite the community into their home. Cyril’s home, Claude corrects in his head. Cyril had even visited Lorenz when he was in-district to personally invite him, but Lorenz waffled on his response, citing that it may not be “the best idea” for him to be present for the event. </p><p>Struggling to save face, Cyril asked politely as to what possibly could be holding Lorenz back from attending the opening ceremony. After all, Cyril wanted only the acceptance of his presence in the Queens community. In a string of platitudes, Lorenz rationalized his decision in real-time, citing his amicable relationship with the Central Masjid and how he’d like to speak with them before finalizing anything. </p><p><i>Of fucking course, Central Masjid.</i> </p><p>A bunch of political fluff, all to spit in Cyril’s face.</p><p>Apparently, looping Cyril out of a crucial political figure at Assalam’s ribbon-cutting ceremony was only one on the long list of instances in which Central has strong-armed its way into local politics, and whatever else they want. Claude bitterly remembers Saturday school when aunties would swat his hand scoldingly, conditioning him to switch his spoon into his non-dominant right hand, or when they’d drag him back into the masjid if he tried to sneak off before praying Zuhr. He doesn’t even want to <i>think</i> about being forced into hijab. </p><p>The number of times Claude answered phone calls from Cyril who’d pretended he wasn’t crying after returning from masjid was innumerable. </p><p>Which is why Cyril took matters into his own hands and founded Masjid Assalam. </p><p>“When has there ever been a brown face to represent the Bronx and Queens? Someone who understands what we’ve been through. Someone who isn’t going to kick you around like that.” Claude says, looking at Cyril with concern. </p><p>Cyril grimaces as he reaches to the top shelf for loose tea leaves. “I can handle a little scuffle.” </p><p>“But must you?” Claude retorts, grabbing the container for him. “We don’t have to keep living like this. We could change the status quo.” </p><p>“What do you mean ‘we?’” Cyril isn’t accusatory, or irritated. Only curious. Claude rustles the tea leaves to avoid eye contact. The sounds, combined with the crunch of Cyril thinly chopping ginger, are therapeutically percussive. </p><p>He shouldn’t ask Cyril. He shouldn’t. Claude has put Cyril through enough by having him as the face of his refugee case. Cyril is far too young to have been tormented by so many of the world’s evils; the least Claude can do is grant him some peace, some calmness in this chaotic country. Asking him to sacrifice that would be not just onerous, but also unfair. </p><p>But he wants this so badly. Together they’ve already proven to America that its immigration system can be toppled. That they don’t have to play by this country’s broken set of rules.  </p><p>“Well. You’ve got me thinking about Assalam and Queens and our borough. And I’m looking for a field director.” Claude glances at Cyril to get a read on his response.</p><p>Cyril’s amber eyes could singe with the intensity of their focus.</p><p>“So...you want me to be on your campaign? Is that what you’re saying?”</p><p>“You don’t have to if you’re busy. I know the organizing that you do takes up most of your day. It was just a thought that popped up in my mind so I wanted to share it,” Claude says, steadying his hand as he measures each scoop. The daarchini and elachi float gently on the surface, and Claude counts the number of times they bob up and down in the water. </p><p>“You think I’m an organizer? Huh…” Cyril’s voice trails off. They both watch the chaa dye the water a dark sepia. The dried leaves swirl around the pot hypnotically.</p><p>“I’ll do it. If you think I should be field director, then I’ll do it,” Cyril turns away from both of them to grab condensed milk and Claude follows him with his eyes, stunned into silence. </p><p>Cyril’s skepticism seems to have evaporated as quickly as the water they’re boiling. A change of heart? So quickly? And for what? </p><p>“For everything you’ve given me in this country, I should help you in turn.” </p><p>No. Claude does <i>not</i> want to hear those words. His shoulders tense, and a knot twists viciously in his stomach. He shouldn’t have asked Cyril to join the campaign. Of course Cyril was going to agree—it’s impossible to get Cyril to say no to him. There doesn’t seem to be a limit on who he will manipulate for his selfish desires, is there, Claude berates himself. How could he take advantage of someone whose only real family is the viper sitting across from him at his own dinner table? </p><p>“Cyril, this isn’t the same as returning a favor. You have no debt to me. And I certainly don’t deserve all the attention you give me.”</p><p>“No bhaiya, I respect you. That’s why I do things for you. So let me join your campaign.” </p><p>The metal pot is steaming with that luscious desi elixir, and Claude feels his eyes fog from the billowing hot air. He shakes two ceramic cups dry and sets them on the countertop. The tea flows smoothly out of the pot, and Claude admires the height of the pour and the wafts of sweet and spicy. </p><p>Placing the strainer filled with the dregs of leaves to the side, Cyril offers Claude his cup. They step back into the dining room, but Cyril waits to sit.</p><p>“Hey, bhaiya. Listen.” Claude’s gaze meets the other’s. Cyril’s fiery pupils could melt glass, but now they are softened, dulled to a small ember. There are shadows under his eyes from the lack of sleep, but his expression is still warm and kind. Claude’s eyes sting.</p><p>“Yeah Cyru?” </p><p>“Here’s to Congressperson Khalid.”</p><p>Cyril clinks his teacup with Claude’s, and takes a big gulp. Claude’s eyes drift to a neatly folded newspaper at the corner of the dining table. The headline reads “ASYLUM SEEKER OPENS GAY MOSQUE AGAINST ESTABLISHMENT’S APPROVAL.” </p><p>Claude burns his tongue on the scorching hot liquid while squinting to read the opening paragraph. ‘They’ can try scalding him, but Claude has made up his mind. He turns back to Cyril, his resolve renewed.</p><p>“Let’s hope he becomes a reality.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I forgot to mention, updates will be every other weekend. I'll always post a link to the new chapter on my twitter, but you'd be better off subscribing from here since I publish a little earlier than I post.</p><p>EDIT: made <a href="https://twitter.com/celicalms/status/1357094688227004416">a thread</a> about one of the parts in this story for cultural/historical context!</p><p>
  <a href="https://twitter.com/celicalms/status/1355592584601726983">retweet here</a>
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        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Into the Lion's Den</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>These gates were built to keep Claude out. And so he’ll tear them down.</p><p>Claude and Dimitri test their new campaign and get to know each other better at Dimitri's alma mater.</p>
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</p><p>Claude’s a seasoned actor, but this performance might be his most ambitious yet. His hellish descent into electoral politics compels him to put on a show, over and over again, and this will only be the first of many.</p><p>The switch from artificial to natural light burns Claude’s eyes as he climbs the stairs from the subway platform. He can already feel the buzz in the air, the bustle of a college town refreshing his spirits. Something about being on a college campus again makes him feel simultaneously ten years younger and ten years older.</p><p>But this isn’t just any college campus—it’s Columbia University, and Claude is on high alert. Here, he walks among the sons of bankers, daughters of senators, children who have the world at their fingertips. With the flick of their wrist, they could easily send the world flying off its axis, too. Claude’s jousted with fellows like this during Model UN conferences in his younger days, but he still has to sift through his personas, searching for the perfect one to wear for today’s event.</p><p>Claude spies the black gates up ahead, their sinuous iron taking on a claw-like shape. They’re rather intimidating, like the prongs could contort at any moment and pierce him. Claude glares at the black metal, not willing to be caught off guard.</p><p>These gates were built to keep him out. And so he’ll tear them down.</p><p>He steps through the gates easily, standing off the sidewalk. Dimitri is supposed to meet him, and from there he’ll escort them to their designated table at the undergraduate activities fair. With a legacy like Dimitri’s, Claude bets the university was scrambling to set up a spot for them.</p><p>Or maybe Dimitri had to beg the administration, pull a few strings and make a few promises to secure this for Claude. There’s no returning to the establishment once you turn your back on it, after all. Maybe the university despises Dimitri for working on Sylvain’s socialist agenda, for upsetting a couple donors.</p><p>It doesn’t hurt to pry a little.</p><p>Claude smirks at the thought. Just because <em>he</em> isn’t revealing all his cards doesn’t mean Dimitri will do the same.</p><p>A part of Claude wants to open his heart. He doesn’t trust the voice suggesting it in the slightest. Claude’s trivial wish to connect with Dimitri is simply that—a wish. It would serve him no purpose and would be divulging too much into personal matters.</p><p>But what if Claude could use this to his advantage?</p><p>Like writing a college essay, Claude can commodify his traumas to get more out of Dimitri. He shudders at the vulnerability, the horrific ordeal of being perceived as his real self, but if it means having Dimitri wrapped around his finger, he can deal with it. Now <em>there’s</em> a strategy.</p><p>An abrupt buzzing from his slacks jolts Claude out of his thoughts. He scrambles for his phone. Maybe it’s Dimitri looking for him?</p><p>He’s met with a slightly blurred photo of Cyril grimacing at the camera. He is mid-sentence and holding a cup of chaa to his face. The backdrop seems incongruent, with an outdoor chai shop and the shade of the trees dappling Cyril in golden sunlight, but Claude is delighted by the chaotic energy of the image. He smiles at the mere sight of Cyril’s adorable pout.</p><p>“What’s up, Cyru?” Claude answers, shifting his weight to one leg and lightly swinging his briefcase.</p><p>“Hi Khalid bhaiya. Nothin’ much is going on. I was just wondering if you wanted to come over today,” Cyril suggests. Claude resists the urge to immediately agree, mentally calculating how long this stunt at Columbia will last, plus the travel time to get back to Queens. He knows how much of a stickler Cyril is about timeliness, and Claude is chronically jet-lagged in Desi Standard Time.</p><p>“Aww Cyru, I’d want to come, but I’m actually at this event right now. My campaign manager thinks it’s a good idea to start talking to university students for the younger vote, so I’m at Columbia today.”</p><p>Claude wonders if his response disappoints Cyril, and he tries to shake the twinge of heartache off, but Cyril hums in understanding.</p><p>“Maybe you could get some of those rich kids to give the campaign a couple thousand, y’know?” Cyril snickers, and Claude is relieved. He laughs, watching the students pass by in their sleek designer clothing and boarding school attire, with their sheen button-up blouses and corporate blue slacks.</p><p>“That’s definitely not how this works. Well at least, the way we’ll be doing things. This is mostly to get the word out about the campaign and to see if anyone is interested in interning. I bet half of this lot wants to go into politics or lobbying or the like,” Claude explains.</p><p>“I guess I’ll learn more about this campaign stuff as time goes on, then. Alrighty bhaiya, I’ll let you get back to work. You’re still free to stop by if you want. Khudafez!”</p><p>Claude returns the greeting and clicks his phone off. Sure enough, he spies Dimitri approaching and slips the device away.</p><p>If Claude wants Dimitri to know as little as possible about him, then he should know even less about Cyril. There’s no way he’d be able to explain their complicated brotherhood of two Bangla boys thrown together in the unlikeliest of circumstances.</p><p>Even if Claude could tell Dimitri, where would he begin? At the airport’s arrival gates, where Claude first received Cyril? What about Cyril’s desperate email to him before then, pleading for legal assistance? Or the late nights when Cyril was forced to recount every transgression against him, as Claude rubbed circles in his back, praying that Cyril’s testimony would be enough to grant him asylum? That there was some meaning to all of this incessant pain. The memories make Claude’s body go rigid, defensive.</p><p>Dimitri cannot be trusted. If not for his sake, then for Cyril. It’s fine. Dimitri and Claude don’t need to be joined at the hip to win this thing. Claude needs only Dimitri’s political expertise, and they’ll succeed combined with Claude’s wit. But Dimitri cannot know.</p><p>The other man approaches Claude, looking way more dressed down than Claude is. He layers a woolen black top coat over a cobalt blue hoodie, opting for black jeans instead of dress pants. Claude envies his stage presence, how he can appear so casually and still be taken seriously.</p><p>“Claude! You’ve arrived earlier than I have. I must improve on my tardiness, it’s not a good look for a campaign manager.”</p><p>“I’m afraid you’re right about that one, big guy. I’m usually the one on Desi Standard Time,” Claude chuckles, recounting his earlier thoughts about Cyril. Dimitri gives Claude a quizzical look.</p><p>“I’m not aware of Desi Standard Time. Is this a commonly used phrase? Forgive me for the ignorance.”</p><p>Claude stares blankly at Dimitri, immediately regretting his choice of words.</p><p>“Oh no, don’t blame yourself. Have you ever heard of being fashionably late to a party? Take that, and make it a cultural practice. It’s a South Asian thing.”</p><p>Dimitri nods thoughtfully and places a finger to his chin.</p><p>“I see. Pardon me, I’ll have to reset my clocks so I’m not running on that timeframe. My mistake,” Dimitri says, manually spinning the clock hands on his Rolex. Claude wordlessly stares at the gold face of Dimitri’s watch.</p><p>“I jest! Let’s get to our booth, before I waste more of our time.”</p><p>Dimitri marches forward, his comically oversized backpack bouncing along. Claude shakes his head and skips in his step to keep up with Dimitri.</p><p>“That’s a big bag you’ve got there. All that for today?” Claude looks down at his briefcase, carrying only his laptop and a notepad inside.</p><p>“Indeed. I reached out to a couple people from Sylvain’s campaign to get some graphics set up for you based off the photos you sent me. They’re not perfect, but this is a lowkey event, mainly for us to test the waters and strategize.”</p><p>Dimitri shrugs his backpack off and it lands with a heavy thunk on the table. He checks the sticky note to confirm their table, pacing around the vicinity. There are organizations set up along the sidewalks scaling from Butler Library to the Low Steps, and Claude marvels at the sight. Charming blue balloons that match the color of today’s sunny skies are stationed at every table, and Claude watches them drift gently in the breeze.</p><p>“It appears they have placed our table alongside the political organizations. That’s promising—there should be several undergraduates eager to participate in such a noble civic duty.” Dimitri pulls flyers and business cards out of his bag, placing paperweights on them gingerly.</p><p>Claude snorts. “‘Noble civic duty’ is one phrase for it. ‘War criminal internship’ is another.”</p><p>Dimitri visibly winces at the statement, swinging his whole body around to meet Claude’s eyes.</p><p>“I’m not—I’m not naive to Congress’s evils, if that’s what you mean to imply. There are better ways to fix the system. I endorse them as much as I endorse electoral means of securing change. This is just...the only way I’m any good at. Sorry, Claude.”</p><p>He brushes his blonde bangs out of his face, revealing his cloudy blue eyes. Claude averts his gaze and puts his hands up in defense. He regrets the joke a little, but not enough that he isn’t intrigued by Dimitri’s reaction.</p><p>“It’s no skin off my back, Dimitri. In fact, I feel the same way as you about this Congress business. We need people on all fronts pushing for reform, and if it’s through direct action or through Capitol Hill, we’ll take any win we can get.” Claude moves to help Dimitri pull a large rolled poster from his bag.</p><p>“And anyways, you’re one-for-one so far. Don’t downplay that. Who would have thought we’d have a socialist in the Senate. A socialist Gautier! This midterm better bring a whole damn bloc to DC, right?” Claude goes around to the other side of the table to unroll the banner.</p><p>Claude barely catches the “inshallah” Dimitri murmurs under his breath, and does a double-take at the perfect pronunciation. He pretends he didn’t witness the most incongruous image: a towering, jacked Aryan dude speaking native Arabic. Is this some sort of pander? An attempt to connect with Claude’s culture? If so, it’ll take a lot more than a commonplace phrase to get Claude to trust Dimitri.</p><p>Maybe the wind hit him right at that moment and the words twisted on their way to him. In any case, Claude makes a mental note of it.</p><p>Claude immediately redirects his attention to the unfurling of the glossy banner. “CLAUDE FOR CONGRESS” the poster states in a loud yellow font. Dimitri steps back and places his hands on his hips, admiring the logo.</p><p>“Quite the craftsmanship, don’t you think?” Claude walks to Dimitri’s side to get a better view of the setup. The sans serif font is bold and full of character, and the bright color stands out from the rest of the booths. It would be easy to fall back on Democrat iconography: the standard medium blue, the stars and stripes, the cheap platitudes. But easy is boring, and nothing’s ever easy for Claude anyway, so why take the easy way out?</p><p>“Our brainstorming session was fruitful, I must say, Claude. I didn’t know you had a creative streak! ‘Our Turn Now’...the slogan is simple, yet brilliant,” Dimitri remarks.</p><p>Claude wants to accept the compliment, almost reflexively, but not before picking Dimitri’s brain.</p><p>“And what makes you say that?”</p><p>He tips his head to eye Dimitri attentively. Dimitri stutters, putting his hand behind his neck and shrugging.</p><p>“It would be irresponsible to assume I know much about you, but from our conversations, I feel as though your campaign embodies the voices of the unheard. You wish to represent a people who have no agency in their lives, whose hands are forced to serve the boss class. So to assert that it is ‘our turn now’ is to put power back in the hands of the people, of the disenfranchised. I admire its ethos.” Dimitri jangles his zipper to fill the silence between them. He then notices the distracting noise and instead reaches for his Macbook to keep his hands busy.</p><p>It’s as though Dimitri pulled a page out of Claude’s therapist’s notebook. He still refuses to unload his every last secret onto the other man, but Claude is genuinely impressed with Dimitri’s attention to detail.</p><p>“That would be a fair interpretation of the slogan, I’d say,” Claude replies curtly.</p><p>“I’m delighted you feel that way! Perhaps we can discuss more about the campaign as we wait for students. Care to take a seat?”</p><p>Dimitri motions to the scrawny metal chairs provided by the university. Claude situates his laptop at the end of the table, with the browser open to a signup sheet. They both settle themselves down and shuffle the flyers and computers around the table until they’ve arrived at a respectable presentation.</p><p>A couple of students pass the table and grab flyers without engaging with either of them, and the pair trade sheepish glances. Dimitri exhales and taps his fingers on the table without rhythm.</p><p>“So. Lorenz Hellman Gloucester. He is quite the well-established individual both in New York and in DC. Do you have any thoughts about him?”</p><p>Thoughts, sure. Claude has plenty of thoughts. Thoughts about how Lorenz ran on the false premise of multiculturalism and how people bought it. How Lorenz kept few promises and how nothing has changed for the Bronx and Queens. How families are still struggling to pay rent, send their kids to school, and put food on the table.</p><p>How Cyril had a dream for a little gay mosque and Lorenz couldn’t be bothered to entertain even that.</p><p>“If you follow politics, you know Lorenz is entrenched in the establishment. His family’s been passing around that House seat for decades. But he does know how to talk. From the outside, it looks like he’s keeping the peace, but in reality, he’s disrupting it,” Claude says, his eyes darkening.</p><p>“I reached a similar conclusion. He’s friendly with a lot of lobbyists. Private health insurance companies and Goldman Sachs, among other shadowy groups. Am I correct in assuming we’re running a no-PAC money campaign like Gautier did?” Dimitri leans his head to Claude for confirmation.</p><p>“Absolutely. Things will be a bit different compared to Sylvain’s race though. I’ve got some reserve funds, but my family isn’t exactly Old Money like they are.” Claude bites his tongue so he doesn’t say ‘like you all are.’ Dimitri doesn’t seem to notice.</p><p>“Understood. I majored in economics alongside political science, and I am hoping those financial skills will serve this campaign well. In Lorenz’s case, we’ll be facing a lot of the similar struggles as I did with Sylvain, but there are certainly as many differences as there are similarities,” Dimitri says, tapping his chin thoughtfully.</p><p>His face is clean shaven, not a single hair out of place. Claude can relate, maybe not to the appearance, but the neuroticism of grooming. Or perhaps this comes naturally to Dimitri, as does everything to him in the political domain, and Claude is simply projecting.</p><p>“Both you and Lorenz are Asian-American and part of the LGBTQ community... I am still contemplating the ramifications of that. I believe your previous work on LGBTQ rights will be better suited to the policies we’ll draft, as opposed to my similar, but not same experiences as you,” Dimitri adds, gazing at the sky above.</p><p>The statement comes as a surprise to Claude. He is deeply aware of his identity, his hypervisibility to others. He feels as though the world watches his every move, waiting for him to slip up so they can point to him as justification for any number of violations against his people. But Claude takes to his identity as an actor does to a manuscript—he is dissociated from the part, breaking in and out of character depending on his presence in certain spaces. For Dimitri to say so plainly—yes, Claude von Riegan is queer—is to collapse Claude’s persona into himself, reminding him that the actor and the character are one and the same.</p><p>“It’s interesting because Lorenz seems to do well with the more conservative, older demographic, but he’s also attracted the sprightly young folks who don’t quite recognize how harmful his actions truly are,” Dimitri leans back in his chair, wobbling to keep his balance.</p><p>“You’re talking about the boba liberals.” Claude states bluntly, copying Dimitri’s balancing act.</p><p>Dimitri almost topples off his seat. “Come again?”</p><p>“The young Asian voters who see him as the represent-asian that they finally need, despite him not having lifted a finger in their favor,” Claude explains.</p><p>“Ah! The boba liberals...yes, that’s the voting bloc. I am constantly learning new terminology from you, Claude.” Dimitri sits upright suddenly, and turns to Claude.</p><p>“I admit, there is much I must learn from you. I’ve strayed far from my father’s footsteps, but even still...you must be aware of my father by now, aren’t you?”</p><p>Claude shifts his weight and the front legs of the chair clunk back to the ground.</p><p>“Senator Lambert Blaiddyd.” Claude doesn’t elaborate further. He wants to hear it from the lion’s mouth. Dimitri begins fidgeting again, averting Claude’s eyes.</p><p>“The former chair of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. My father. I feel the urge to say sorry, but I don’t know what I would be apologizing for. Or if I <em>can</em> apologize on his behalf. Or if an apology would even suffice, for the atrocities he’s overseen.”</p><p>Claude breaks his gaze from Dimitri, instead fixating on the back of Dimitri’s laptop. It’s adorned with stickers, some shinier and some more well-worn. Claude easily identifies Sylvain’s campaign slogan, “For Our Future,” but inspects the other logos. There is a “Students for Justice in Palestine” logo, a gavel cri-cut, and an “I Voted” sticker that looks prehistoric. Claude tries not to roll his eyes. The duality of the white leftist.</p><p>Lambert Blaiddyd has blood on his hands, but can the same blood exchange hands? Is Dimitri to atone for his father’s crimes? And with what?</p><p>“I wanted nothing to do with my father’s legacy...and I received your request at the best moment. I was eager to join your cause.” Dimitri gives Claude a small, hopeful smile. “So far it has been to my liking. I hope I do not disappoint you.”</p><p>Claude holds his breath, hoping as hard as Dimitri is for the same.</p><p>Before Claude can respond, a voice from his periphery shouts “Mr. Blaiddyd!” Both turn their heads to the source of the sound.</p><p>A young woman with auburn hair sprints towards them and skids to a stop in front of their table. Dimitri rises from his seat.</p><p>“Mr. Blaiddyd, it’s an honor to meet you. I’m a first-year student here, and my friends told me you’d be tabling today, so I had to track you down. I’m actually from Massachusetts too! I’m a huge fan of your work on Senator Gautier’s campaign, and I’m so excited for you to be running your own!”</p><p>The woman sticks her hand out, and Dimitri dutifully takes her hand and shakes it. Claude is too slow to warn her about Dimitri’s death grip, but she seems pleased at the mere opportunity of meeting a... political hero? Claude supposes is the term for it.</p><p>“The honor is all mine, dear. Things are a great deal different down here in New York, wouldn’t you agree?” She giggles and nods her head fervently.</p><p>“Mr. Blaiddyd, what position are you running for?” She inquires, scrutinizing the flyers. Claude creases his eyebrows. Dimitri blinks a couple of times, confused.</p><p>“I’m just a campaign manager, love. The superstar you want to be talking to is Claude von Riegan. He’s running in New York’s 14th Congressional district.” The woman’s eyes fall on Claude, and he immediately feels uneasy. Claude stands and broadens his shoulders instinctively, as though he carries even half the presence that Dimitri does.</p><p>“It’s a pleasure to meet you. You seem knowledgeable about politics. Most people wouldn’t think about identifying the campaign manager of a race; they tend to focus on the figurehead. In this case, Sylvain. Have you considered volunteering for a campaign?”</p><p>The woman shrugs, looking to Dimitri for approval instead. He gives her an encouraging nod.</p><p>“Mmm, I’ve thought about it…but I need to resonate with the candidate before committing to something like this.”</p><p>Claude feels like he’s been stabbed.</p><p>Of course the petite white girl doesn’t resonate with the brown guy with the beard lineup. He’d rather have been called a slur. It’d be more direct, easier to focus the anger onto. Instead, Claude is left with the crawling feeling of discomfort, a nebulous dislike he can’t pin down and identify. He continues to speak.</p><p>“My platform is similar to Sylvain’s. We support Medicare For All, the Green New Deal, and so many key policies of the progressive movement. My race is not only my own—if I am elected, I plan on building a socialist bloc in Congress so that we can secure changes that go beyond simple reforms. We’re tearing the whole thing down.”</p><p>The woman has her full focus on Claude now, and nods as he speaks.</p><p>“Maybe I’ll give it a try then... How do I sign up?” Claude redirects her to his laptop and she quickly fills out her contact information.</p><p>“Thanks for your support! We’ll get in touch with you over the next few weeks to get you oriented,” Claude says, shifting into a more docile tone.</p><p>What a terrible start to their event. Of course there’s a Dimitri fangirl on Columbia campus. Any other non-surprises want to make themselves evident to Claude before he goes home and shoves his grizzly face in a pillow?</p><p>“Cool, I hope to hear back soon! It was nice meeting both of you,” she says, waving and scurrying off to the next booth. Claude does his best to not show his disappointment.</p><p>“That was a success, I’d say,” Dimitri begins delicately.</p><p>“You’re awfully generous, Your Kingliness,” Claude replies flatly.</p><p>“I believe this was a one-off encounter. She even said so herself, she’s from my state. It has nothing to do with your legitimacy as a candidate.” Dimitri sits down again, spreading his long legs lazily and stretching forward, unbothered by the incident. Claude takes a seat as well, softly touching the pads of his fingers to his neatly trimmed facial hair.</p><p>Claude doesn’t look the part. He doesn’t look like House representative material. He stands at a mere 5’9 compared to Dimitri’s 6’2. Curse his early puberty, curse his Bangla genes. He came straight from work wearing his best suit and tie, and still doesn’t look like a candidate for Congress.</p><p>“The beard is bad for optics,” Claude finally concludes. Dimitri looks directly at Claude, as if counting every last hair on his jaw.</p><p>“I suppose going clean-shaven will increase electability,” Dimitri agrees after some thinking. “But you look rather handsome right now. I wouldn’t change a thing.”</p><p>Claude’s stomach twists with disgust. The words feel cloying in his ears and drip down his throat stickily.</p><p>What does Dimitri know about walking through the world looking the way he does? Handsome never stopped him from getting interrogated by the TSA, or receiving death glares in supermarkets in the weeks after an Islamic extremist wrought terror.</p><p>No matter how much Claude tries to hide himself, the spotlights gravitate back to him. He is center-stage in this play, but he doesn’t know any of the lines. Can everyone else tell, too?</p><p>“Claude! I almost forgot. To run for office, you must fill out this registration form. I brought it with me today,” Dimitri says, rummaging through his bag.</p><p>He hands Claude a neatly stapled stack of papers, and Claude skims the pages.</p><p>Ah. Legal name.</p><p>What was Claude expecting, though?</p><p>“I can drop the forms off to the district office once you’ve completed them, if it would be more convenient for you. I recognize you’re still employed at your law firm, and I wish to ease any burdens you may encounter,” Dimitri suggests, peering at the forms again in Claude’s hands.</p><p>Claude places the papers down on the table and secures them with Dimitri’s paperweight. He strains his eyes looking up at Butler Library, the brilliant blue sky blinding him. Across the ancient stone are inscribed names like Homer, Plato, Aristotle, and Shakespeare. They are immortalized into the entrance of the library, as a permanent reminder of their presence, their influence, their contributions to society.</p><p>Could a name like Khalid Islam ever grace the facades of buildings?</p><p>“It’s not a problem Dimitri, I can handle the papers myself. You don’t have to worry about me. You’ve got enough on your plate, manager,” Claude winks for good measure, and Dimitri’s cheeks flush with a hint of color. Just enough for Claude to notice and feel assured that his secret is safe.</p><p>“W-Well, I assume you’ve been busy yourself with the search for our field and political directors. Have you arrived at any decisions as of yet?”</p><p>“As a matter of fact, I have! I’ll introduce you to our field director soon enough,” Claude says, running his fingers over his beard for comfort.</p><p>“How did you decide on them? Fieldwork is arguably the most important part of a campaign’s reach. They should be experts on their constituents, or at least have the fortitude to educate themselves up to speed.”</p><p>Claude darts his eyes away from Dimitri searching the crowd of undergraduates for some excuse. He hypothesizes an infinite number of scenarios before any encounter, and yet Dimitri makes him feel like he constantly needs to improvise.</p><p>“He and I are close. We’ve been through hell and back. I’m certain he’s right for the job.” Claude returns his gaze to Dimitri, his voice full of conviction. Zero lies told, and no compromising information revealed. Claude should give a masterclass in performing arts.</p><p>Dimitri takes the bait easily, nodding contemplatively. “I see. I’m confident in your choice, and I look forward to meeting him. Our team is almost fully assembled...this is sure to be a thrilling experience!”</p><p>Thrilling, much like navigating a dungeon filled with riveting obstacles such as voter disenfranchisement, fundraising, and the establishment. Thrilling in the sense of not having a single clue of how any of this works and convincing people you’ll find the solutions.</p><p>Claude thinks back to Cyril’s asylum case, of how there was no way he could know the outcome. All he could do was keep reading, researching, writing, fighting. This won’t be a walk in Central Park, but it is exponentially more comfortable than being in the position that so many in Claude’s community are in.</p><p>Claude has the luxury of blending in. He can feel like an imposter all he wants, but the fact of the matter is that he passes. On every front. He passes as a man, he passes as the educated class. He has the privilege of an American passport and of a cushy job, a savings account and a glamorous apartment to his name.</p><p>It’s disingenuous for Claude to complain when he has so much. Maybe not tangible power, but the means to obtain that power, and wield it to the benefit of his people.</p><p>So yeah. Call it thrilling. Call it miserable. Call it whatever the hell you want. Khalid can be Claude and von Riegan can be Islam. Whatever the name, it will not obfuscate the journey to the end of the manuscript, in this outrageous play called American politics.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>fun fact I wrote the dimitri inshallah thing before the presidential debate where biden said inshallah and when I saw the debate highlights the following morning I wanted to scream because the bit in my fic is not supposed to be a reference to him. alas</p><p>
  <a href="https://twitter.com/celicalms/status/1360665004429762566">retweet fic</a>
  <br/>
  <a href="https://twitter.com/celicalms/status/1325845948908646402">retweet art</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Blood Thicker Than Water</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Claude juggles work with campaign responsibilities, his delicate siblinghood with Cyril, and his ever-changing façade presented to Dimitri. …Wait, what is he talking about at today's protest again?</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In theory, Claude should be preparing for his speech, his first public appearance as a congressional candidate. He should be reviewing his meticulously crafted monologue, fact-checking any statistics he’s included, and refreshing his memory on the organizers of the event and the type of crowd that it might draw, to best tailor his writing to their needs and demands.  </p><p>Instead, he is arguing with his little brother in a stuffy elevator. </p><p>“Cyril, you should hand off your responsibilities at the masjid to someone else, at least for the duration of the campaign,” Claude says. He tries to refrain from his lecturing voice. It doesn’t work.</p><p>“I’m not gonna.” Cyril rebuts, crossing his arms and glaring at him. </p><p>“How much are you making there? I’ll match that. More, if it isn’t enough.” Claude proposes. </p><p>Doesn’t he understand that Claude can support him? Why is he resisting? Cyril has always relied on Claude, from co-signing leases to navigating the immigration system to figuring out how the machines work at the laundromat. Why is this any different? </p><p>“I don’t care about how much I make at Assalam, or how much I make doing this thing for you, for that matter,” Cyril snarls. </p><p>Claude’s patience is running thin. He’s been dwelling on his job all morning, knowing he’ll have to leave eventually, but his heart breaks at the thought of abandoning his immigration cases. His colleagues will pick up where he leaves off, but a job just isn’t done to the same standard if you’re not doing it yourself. </p><p>The entire morning was spent compiling dossiers so that Claude could leave work early to attend this protest. Dimitri had called with a briefing of the event’s logistics which Claude now barely remembers. All he knows is that they’re attending a Fight for 15 rally and that Claude will be speaking there. About raising the minimum wage. </p><p>That’s all he’s got.</p><p>Cyril’s rigidity isn’t helping soothe his nerves in the slightest. </p><p>“This isn’t just some ‘thing.’ You’ll be the director of the field department for a congressional campaign. Look, whatever, I don’t care what you think. All I’m saying is that you don’t have to shoulder both responsibilities on your own.” </p><p>Cyril uncrosses his arms and balls his fists at his side.</p><p>“I don’t need you to help me. I’m not a kid y’know!”</p><p>The road ahead will be difficult. Cyril working overtime as both field director and director of Masjid Assalam will burn him out.</p><p>“Cyru, I know it’s not ideal, but I don’t want you to exhaust yourself.” Claude lowers his voice to assuage Cyril’s bristling attitude. </p><p>“The masjid is <i>my</i> thing. I’m not gonna stop working there just ‘cause I’m doing other work.”</p><p>Ahh. It’s an independence thing. Cyril can’t leave his position as director of the masjid—the same way that Claude doesn’t want to leave his firm. It’s a means of personal fulfillment. </p><p>“Alright. I think I understand now. But if at any point you think you need a break, you tell me, you hear?” </p><p>Cyril relaxes his posture, satisfied that they have arrived at a compromise. </p><p>“Okay bhaiya. I will.” He promises, and exits Claude’s view as the elevator doors open with a ring. </p><p>They walk in silence for a bit before Cyril chirps up, his demeanor back to usual. </p><p>“This campaign manager. What’s his name again?” </p><p>Claude already has a feeling he knows where this conversation is going, but he responds with a curt ‘Dimitri.’ </p><p>“So, he’s shada.”</p><p>“Yeah, he’s white. There’s no one else here, Cyril, you don’t have to speak in Bangla.”</p><p>“What does he know about you?” Cyril replies (in Bangla). The question warrants an incredulous look from Claude, and Cyril stares back. “I’ve gotta know what I can and can’t say. We’re not losing this election ‘cause some white guy doesn’t get what’s at stake.”</p><p>This is true. Dimitri should only learn what’s necessary. Everything else stays hidden from sight. That means concealing Claude’s true identity and Claude’s unwavering dedication to his chotto bhai. </p><p>‘Khalid’ is the one whose heart blazes for a new dawn, the one whose entire being pulsates for a better reality. But Claude is the one who is grounded, calculated. Claude’s beliefs are solid, determined, but can’t capture the imagination of the public because they will never be unveiled to them. Sometimes one can catch a glimpse of Khalid, but never enough to construct the full picture of him. Instead, they are left with a fragmented daylight, the shards of a broken mirror that reflects bits of his face over and over. ‘Claude’ is the constancy of the sun that rises every morning, but ‘Khalid’ is the rays that warm one’s face and burn one’s eyes.</p><p>“He knows me as Claude. And he doesn’t know a thing about you.”</p><p>Claude eyes Cyril for a reaction, and he makes a small grunt of approval. </p><p>“Let’s try to keep it that way, bhaiya,” Cyril raises his eyebrows and skips ahead a couple steps. Claude trails after, looking down at the city below him. He catches his reflection in the window, and almost doesn’t recognize himself. Bringing his fingers to his face, he rubs his chin, his perfectly manicured beard gone, left with a narrow trim lining his jaw. The two sides of his beard aren’t even connecting. The only word apt for his complexion is ‘pathetic.’ </p><p>“Hey uh, Cyru. Do you think I look bad without my beard?” Claude asks, giving Cyril pleading eyes. He touches his cheek softly. Ugh. He feels naked. </p><p>“You’ve looked better,” Cyril says with a smirk, and unlocks the door to Claude’s apartment. </p><p>The apartment is spacious, and floor-length windows give a beautiful view of the city rooftops. The place is relatively tidy, but Claude knows not to let Cyril into his bedroom, because Claude creates only the illusion of organization. Cyril would throw a fit if he saw the state of Claude’s room. But he also knows Cyril isn’t going to scold him in front of their new guest, who is sitting spine-straight on the sofa, staring ahead at the TV’s black screen. Claude lightly taps Dimitri’s shoulder from behind. </p><p>“Hey champ, no need to be so uptight. After all, I’m the one giving the speech, not you,” Claude chuckles, and Dimiti whips around, slightly startled at the contact. Did he not hear the two walk in? </p><p>“Claude! You’re back. I was merely deliberating on your talking points, assessing if anything should be modified.” Dimitri’s eyes drift to the younger Bengali. “Ah. You must be Cyril. It’s a pleasure to meet a close kin of Claude’s.”</p><p>Cyril raises his hand and nods as greeting. “Nice to meetcha. We are kinda like brothers, aren’t we?” Claude glances between them, wondering if he is interpreting their interaction correctly. Does Dimitri...actually think—</p><p>“OH. Forgive my ignorance. I was under the impression that you two were relatives.” Dimitri’s voice rumbles, and he stands up to bow guiltily. Before Dimitri’s head rises, Cyril side-eyes Claude awkwardly. “Your likeness to Claude is striking...I apologize again for my misstep.”</p><p>Before Cyril can reply, Claude leans into Dimitri and nudges him playfully. </p><p>“You’re not just saying that ‘cause we’re both brown, right Dimitri?” </p><p>“Goodness no! I am deeply regretful for any offense I may have caused. It was not my intention, but I seek to rectify it in any way possible.” </p><p>Out of the corner of his eye, Claude sees Cyril rubbing his temples. </p><p>“He sounds like my TOEFL prep book. Can we wrap things up here and leave already? We’ve got places to be.” Cyril mutters to Claude in Bangla, and Claude’s eyes widen. He is supremely good at masking his emotions, but the unabashed hilarity of the statement almost costs Claude’s composure.</p><p>“Cyril isn’t offended, and neither am I. Not to worry, my friend,” he says, swiveling on his socks and heading for the door. We <i>do</i> have places to be, Claude thinks, and it’s best to not divulge into too much backstory lest Dimitri puts the pieces together.</p><p>Claude thought too soon. </p><p>“If you aren’t brothers, then how did the two of you meet?” Claude twirls around again and bumps into Dimitri’s chest, not realizing that he was trailing behind him like a lost puppy. Logically, Claude should have prepared for every branch in the decision tree of this interaction with Dimitri. But Claude was also juggling his shoddy preparation for today’s rally. A little improvisation isn’t too much of a challenge for Claude though, right? After all, he is a renowned lawyer. </p><p>But it’s Cyril’s turn to jump in. </p><p>“I’m an organizer in Queens, and I’ve worked with Claude before. We’re both Bangladeshi, so I know plenty about Claude’s background and how to appeal to voters,” Cyril explains. </p><p>Claude’s heart swells three sizes, and a smile grows on his face. He’s really embracing the title! He’s never seen how professional Cyril can be: he’d catch glimpses when Cyril was attending to Assalam matters, but this new side to Cyril delights Claude. </p><p>And of course, Claude must acknowledge the brilliant save on Cyril’s part. </p><p>It seems that Dimitri is satiated by the response. “That’s wonderful! You’ll make for a fine field director. I am curious to learn more about these methods. Perhaps you can humor me on the way to the event.” Cyril gives a reluctant “hm,” echoing Dimitri’s ‘perhaps’ as he slips on his shoes.</p><p>As they pace through the hallways to the elevator, the vast skyline stretches beneath them. Some might find it dizzying, but Claude sees a challenge. The city is brimming with potential, with so many individuals who, with the right direction, could collectively change their material conditions. There are so many people Claude has yet to meet, yet to understand, yet to engage. He squints, as if he could recognize faces from so far above; he refocuses his eyes to his reflection. Claude sighs.</p><p>What does it matter if he has a beard or not? It’s not like it’s gone forever. If Claude really wants, he could grow it back within the next two weeks like it never left. This internal dialogue seems so trifling. Claude knows he has to make sacrifices; this should be the least of his concerns.</p><p>And yet, it isn’t. Claude never wanted to change himself to appease other people. But this task compels him. The election demands it. And if the people around him are going to put their all into this campaign, then Claude can afford this temporary discomfort. </p><p>Claude turns away from the window to be greeted by Dimitri, who has been watching him the entire time. </p><p>“Your new look, Claude,” Dimitri starts hesitantly. “It’s...I think it suits you. You look congressional!” Dimitri’s voice is cheerful, but Claude feels like sand was kicked in his face. </p><p>“Is that so,” Claude begins, his tone inscrutable. “That’s the goal, I suppose.”</p><p>Of course it looks congressional. The closer Claude can align himself with the white man, the more likely it is that people will find him credible. Surely melanin rubs off? Considering the number of times Claude has touched his face searching for his phantom beard, with his palms remaining the same pinkish-white and not a smudge of brown to be found, Claude isn’t counting on it. </p><p>Claude’s consumed with a solemn sense of loss. Even though this has been an unusually warm October for New York, Claude can feel the city on the edge of autumn, and he isn’t ready to leave behind languid, sunny skies and peaceful, mild nights. He longs for the comfortable, the familiar. The calm before the storm of the campaign. The security of having a routine, of things he is used to.</p><p>So yeah. He misses his damn beard.</p><p>As the trio makes their way to Claude’s Camry, he notices Dimitri’s oversized scarf, the same from the first time they met.  It wears a distinct geometric texture that vaguely piques his memory, but he can’t identify where he’s seen it before. It reminds him of the tapestries his mother would adorn the walls with in his childhood home, though it’s not exactly the same.</p><p>“Awfully warm for that sort of attire, don’t you think?” Claude motions to the fringes resting in Dimitri’s hands.</p><p>“It is, and while I do overheat easily...I like having it with me. As a means of comfort. To be candid with you, I get nervous for these events, so I err on the side of caution and bring a scarf regardless.” He gestures chaotically and the frayed edges of the wool scarf flop between his fingertips. </p><p>Dimitri’s had a lifetime of training for politics, and he still gets stage fright? He isn’t even the one running! </p><p>Claude’s heartbeat quickens. Is he underestimating this speaking opportunity? It seemed straightforward when he agreed to it. But now Claude ruminates, he should have scripted beforehand. He’d frantically typed a couple bullet points in his Notes app the night before, but that isn’t going to suffice. Or will it? Should Claude have pulled up statistics on local employment rates? This is a Fight for 15 rally...from what Claude remembers. Now he’s doubting basic facts. </p><p>Dimitri tilts his head towards Claude. “I also wanted to ask, when shall we meet the political director?”</p><p>Claude welcomes the change in topic and gives Dimitri a knowing smile. “She’ll meet us at the rally today, actually.”</p><p>“Splendid! Then that makes this our first official event as a full team! I’m eager to make her acquaintance.”</p><p>Claude looks to Cyril to read his reaction. He clearly doesn’t share Dimitri’s enthusiasm. </p><p>“Is she white too?” Cyril whispers fiercely in Bangla. Claude hesitates before giving a short nod. </p><p>“What are we running, a nonprofit or a campaign? Bhaiya, you can’t keep selling us out for these people. They don’t know what they’re doing.” Cyril’s eyes dart between Claude and Dimitri, who is now scrolling idly on his phone. </p><p>“I didn’t find any red flags. You’ll see when you meet her, she’s a fun one,” Claude reassures Cyril. He’s unconvinced, resolving to jam his hands in his pockets and disengage. </p><p>The black Camry is parked slightly askew to the curb. He doesn’t need to look at Cyril to feel judged. Cyril inspects the rest of the car like a prospective buyer, assessing any imperfections Claude forgot to scrub away. He pats the trunk, drawing attention to the gaping hole in the center where the circular Toyota logo used to be, before some punk gouged out the metal for scraps.</p><p>“This will be the first time you owe me, bhaiya,” Cyril jokes bitingly. “Your logo was stolen before mine. So much for me being from the hood, right?” </p><p>“Betting is haram,” Claude retorts, lunging towards Cyril threateningly before faking him out, temporarily forgetting about Dimitri. Cyril doesn’t flinch. Claude quickly loses interest in bothering Cyril, instead resuming professionalism and approaching the driver’s side. </p><p>Cyril immediately wraps his fingers around the door handle to the shotgun seat, claiming his territory, and Claude proceeds to stare him down from the other side of the car. </p><p>Well, Cyril’s feeling bolder than usual. But as the eldest sibling, Claude must put him in his place.</p><p>“Cyril.” He states, widening his eyes accusingly and tipping his head to Dimitri, who is resignedly moving to the backseat. Dimitri is almost a head taller than Cyril, and far more built. No question, he needs the legroom more than Cyril needs his pride. The younger man rolls his eyes.</p><p>“Ah, Claude, I don’t mind sitting in the back. Go ahead Cyril, it’s alright.” Dimitri smiles kindly at Cyril, and Cyril’s shoulders tense, ashamed at his arrogance. He hurriedly slips into the car. </p><p>As the car revs up, Claude tosses his phone into the cup holder, the screen set to the maps app estimating their arrival time. The protest is in the heart of Times Square, which Claude despises, but he knows that the location will attract attention, and with attention comes media presence. Hopefully enough local news stations are already on the beat and rushing to report on the rally so that other organizers can use the momentum as the final push for legislation. </p><p>A high-energy sitar tune blasts from the speakers startling everyone, and Cyril, even more embarrassed than before, quickly slams off the music. Claude viscerally feels the car’s center of gravity lurch as Dimitri leans forward. </p><p>“Is that Bollywood? Please, by all means, continue playing the song! I quite enjoy the lively rhythms! The drive from the Bronx to Times Square is around thirty minutes. We shouldn’t sit in total silence like so.” The width of Dimitri’s shoulders prevents him from getting any closer to see Claude’s reaction, and Claude thanks Allah that his melanin hides his flushed face. He doesn’t even think he can look Cyril in the eye ever again. </p><p>“Cyril, turn the music back on. Please,” he states curtly, attempting to mask the plea in his voice. Before Cyril hits the audio button, he takes Claude’s phone and opens Spotify.</p><p>“We are <i>not</i> playing that song. I’m shuffling the playlist,” Cyril says to Claude in Bangla. He taps the skip button hastily.</p><p>“MAKE SOME NOISE FOR THE DESI BOYZ!” the speakers boom, practically blowing out Claude’s eardrums with the deep pulsating baseline. Claude dares to check Cyril’s face, only to be met with a fierce stare. Claude glances in the rearview mirror instead, watching Dimitri nod his head excitedly to the beat. Cyril is too stubborn to change the song after committing to changing it once. He suspends his thumb over the screen, regretting his life decisions. The sooner they get to the rally, the sooner this awkward car ride will be over. </p><p>They get onto 278 and the song changes to an Arabic one. Claude spies Dimitri perk up in the rearview mirror. </p><p>“What’s up, big guy?” Claude calls to the back of the car. </p><p>“Oh! I’m alright. I simply recognized this song. The lyrics are quite beautiful. You have wonderful taste in music,” Dimitri praises. </p><p>Claude has so many questions. He doesn’t know where to begin. What is the best way for him to approach this in a tactful manner? Claude has been piecing together little scraps of evidence from their various encounters thus far. The “inshallah” from the Columbia activities fair. The strangely familiar blue scarf. And now the Arabic lyrics?</p><p>For better or for worse, Cyril beats him to the punch.</p><p>“How do you know Arabic?” Cyril asks plainly, twisting his torso to speak to Dimitri. That’s one way to ask.</p><p>“I completed a concentration in Middle Eastern, South Asian, and African Studies at Columbia. While language wasn’t a requirement, I was interested in Arabic. I think it’s beautiful, and I want to visit the Middle East someday. I have a deep appreciation for the culture,” Dimitri says. </p><p>The scene plays before Claude’s mind like a tacky skit. A classroom full of bratty warhawks raring to learn this foreign culture, readying drone strikes with their console controllers, and then <i>this</i> gentle giant dutifully taking notes in the back row. Claude withholds a snort. Cyril, on the other hand, has ample comedic material to work with.</p><p>“Tell him to say ‘ashadu…’” He snickers in Bangla, and Claude can’t help but let out a single “ha!” in response. But Claude’s eyebrows furrow in confusion when he hears a muffled laughter from Dimitri as well. </p><p>“‘Ashadu.’ Is that not the beginning of the declaration to become Muslim? Your humor is delightful, Cyril.” </p><p>Cyril looks like a deer in headlights. </p><p>“You speak Bangla too?!” he exclaims, his amber eyes wide with shock. Dimitri shakes his head, laughing softly. </p><p>“No, but I recognized the phrase in between the other words. That’s another language I wanted to take on, in truth, since not many universities offer Bengali. Alas, my hands were full with other classes and commitments,” he says wistfully, turning his gaze to the window and watching the cars whizz by. </p><p>The fast-paced work environment of his law firm can’t compare to the amount of whiplash Claude sustained in the last two minutes. That was certainly one way to learn Dimitri’s backstory. But it was risky of Cyril to prematurely question Dimitri before Claude could generate a more tactful phrasing. </p><p>Cyril has a no-nonsense policy, which can lead him to be blunt at times. Claude would prefer to tread lightly on personal matters such as Dimitri’s motivations, so that Claude can calculate how much he needs to give up about himself to secure what he wants from the other man. He makes these choices gingerly, after much deliberation. Cyril is unversed in the art of these exchanges. </p><p>Even so, what Cyril doesn’t know of the world of the American elite, he makes up for with his survival tactics. Cyril isn’t naïve enough to give up information so readily to Dimitri, either. Their trust transcends blood, and Claude and Cyril both know that well. </p><p>Whatever Cyril does reveal to Dimitri will be on Cyril’s own terms, and Claude has faith that Cyril will make the right decisions.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>the song that cyril shuts off is sadi gali if you were wondering<br/>I also have a <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5qKblWEsQOtnfwX53IeWnK?si=q47d5HCLRaqviBR7VYORMA">playlist</a> that includes the music featured in this chapter plus some storytelling/narrative songs if you're interested!<br/><a href="https://twitter.com/celicalms/status/1365360988938248198">retweet here</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Nomad Man</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>From Dhaka to Makkah to Queens, Cyril has always been a nomad man.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>Times Square is a postmodern nightmare of neon signs and product placements, and Cyril detests it with every fiber of his being. The fact that people come to this mess of retail stores and call it “New York” is an offense to every native New Yorker. But it’s better than having these foreigners encroach on his turf. Cyril would hate to see some nuclear family clad with their GoPros meandering around, say, Kabab King.</p><p>Ugh. He feels his jaw tighten with anger. Get away from his “ethnic” food, and get out of his neighborhood.</p><p>Cyril has sympathy for some of the people who work here, those who exist on the outskirts: the souvenir shop owners, the halal cart chefs, the cab drivers. The black and brown people who keep the city running. He never takes for granted the generosity of some of these folks, who are willing to squeeze a little extra white sauce on his halal chicken and rice or who insist they give him a “family” discount.</p><p>But the heart of Times Square is filled with tourists and people who have the misfortune of needing to traverse this pedestrian chaos to get to their destination.</p><p>Cyril spots an assembly of people a dozen meters ahead of them. He faintly makes out the echo of a loudspeaker, and the disquieting hum of people listening in on whoever is giving a monologue. He tries to quell a bubbling energy in his chest, a blend of fear and exhilaration. The scene is immediately familiar to him. He takes a sweeping look at the surroundings to confirm if his hunch is right.</p><p>Where there’s piggies, there’s a protest. That’s one thing Cyril knows well.</p><p>This isn’t the first time Cyril has been to an event like this, but he didn’t think he’d be returning to the scene so soon. And in the United States? He came to this country to escape inequalities, only to find more of the same. But Cyril is certain that the situation here isn’t as bad as it was in Bangladesh and Saudi Arabia.</p><p>“Bhaiya, up ahead, I think that’s it,” he says, nodding to the unusual gathering. “Ki bhir.”</p><p>Claude chuckles and shakes his head. “Not bhir, Cyril. Kotho manush. Are you ready?”</p><p>The subtlety is not lost on Cyril. Bhir is, literally, crowdedness. The run-of-the-mill traffic jam on the streets of Dhaka, where people would weave between stationary cars to go about their business, ignoring the traffic signals and whatever few crosswalks are present.</p><p>But manush? Ascribing personhood to the crowd is to affirm the innate humanity of those who make up the crowd. They are not simply an amorphous mass. Their very existence grants them the right to political participation, no exceptions apply.</p><p>“As ready as you are,” Cyril shrugs. He checks for Dimitri’s whereabouts, noticing him lagging a healthy distance behind the duo. At least he’s giving them some space and not breathing down their necks like that awful car ride on the way here.</p><p>“Challo. Let’s find our political director.”</p><p>Claude plunges straight into the demonstration, slipping between people like a fish in a river. Cyril struggles to follow, but doesn’t bother to check if Dimitri is keeping up, either. Maybe it would have been a better idea to have Dimitri cut through so Claude doesn’t have to wind his way through the mass of people.</p><p>“Lysithea!” Claude calls, reaching the front of the crowd. Cyril stumbles behind him, finally catching up. A woman whips around, locking her gaze with Cyril’s, her intense rose-colored eyes burning holes into him. She turns towards Claude.</p><p>“Claude. Nice to know you’d show up eventually. Do you have any idea of what you’re talking about today, or are you so utterly scatterbrained as to arrive at your first political event without a plan? Because I’ve written a speech for you based on the subpar policy proposals on your website, which might I add, is exceedingly difficult to navigate.”</p><p>She narrows her eyes, only eliciting a hearty laugh from Claude.</p><p>“I’ve got a rough idea of what I’ll say. Want me to pull up my Notes app for you?” He grins cheekily and points to his phone. She simply exhales loudly, strands of snowy hair blowing away from her face.</p><p>“Save me the trouble. I’m sending you the speech right now. I hope they taught you how to read in law school.”</p><p>Someone who has the audacity to talk to Claude like that... Cyril isn’t jumping ship so easily, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t impressed.</p><p>Stumbling behind Cyril is Dimitri, who managed to follow them through the crowd. Lysithea’s cold stare shifts to his towering figure.</p><p>“Ah. The one and only. I know his expertise lies elsewhere, but can I pass the camera duties to Dimitri? I want to assess the crowd’s reactions to the speech. I’ll be preoccupied.” Lysithea crosses her arms and purses her lips at Dimitri. His blonde bangs hide the slightest crinkling of his eyes, the faintest of smiles.</p><p>Claude pulls Dimitri by his upper arm and waves his hand between Lysithea and Dimitri.</p><p>“Dimitri, this is Lysithea, our political director. She may know you already from your campaign work or whatever, but she seems to have forgotten your hidden talent in cinematography.” Claude nudges Dimitri with his elbow, hoping he catches on.</p><p>“Is that so! It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lysithea. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of my world-renowned camerawork, but I can assure you the duties of campaign manager fall second to my film-making.” Dimitri says, completely seriously. Lysithea’s face flushes almost instantaneously, embarrassed by her boldness.</p><p>“Th-that isn’t to say you don’t have other responsibilities, I was simply—”</p><p>“A jape! It was a jape. I have no problem recording Claude’s speech. Do what you must, Lysithea! We should probably let the organizers know that we’re here. Claude?” Dimitri defers to Claude for approval.</p><p>“Before we go, one last introduction. Lysithea, this is Cyril. He’s our field director. I think you two might be around the same age? But yeah, now that that’s taken care of, we’ll be off!”</p><p>Dimitri walks towards the organizers, but Claude lingers behind. He pulls Cyril by the shoulder to get out of Lysithea’s earshot.</p><p>“Play nice, okay?”</p><p>Claude winks and dashes after Dimitri before Cyril can get a word in. Cyril sighs and follows Claude’s silhouette with his eyes. He feels Lysithea approach him, but refuses to initiate conversation. Lysithea’s stare is unsettling. He instinctively knows that she’s inspecting him, trying to get a read on what he’s like.</p><p>Well, she won’t be getting much out of him.</p><p>“So, Cyril, right? I guess I’ll be working a lot with you. Policy and field seem like total opposites, but the two depend on each other for a successful campaign.” Lysithea chirps animatedly, peering at Cyril for a reaction. He doesn’t echo her enthusiasm.</p><p>“Whaddya mean by that?”</p><p>“A candidate can have great ideas and proposals, but if the field department isn’t doing anything to get the message out, the campaign is a dud. Similarly, a candidate can do a fantastic job firing up their base, but without solid policy, they’ll crumble before their opponents during debates or town halls.”</p><p>“Then how do you explain Lorenz?” Cyril asks. It’s a genuine question he doesn’t know the answer to. Lysithea’s eyes fill with curiosity.</p><p>“How <em>do</em> you explain the problem of Lorenz? That question intrigues me, and it’s a good one to ask,” she says, contemplative. Cyril feels a flash of pride in his chest, but dampens the feeling. “My first thought is the whole nepotism thing going on for him, but how has he managed to do nothing for so long?”</p><p>Cyril resists the bitter laugh rising in his throat. “I guarantee you he’s done a lot worse than nothing.”</p><p>“Oh? I’m still reading up on his policies and stances, so forgive me if I’m not up to speed. Did you grow up in his district? Is that why you know about him?” She asks gently.</p><p>His throat clenches up, but he guides his nervous system from the danger zone. It’s a simple question, and so he’ll provide a simple response.</p><p>“Nah, I’ve lived in Queens for a few years, but I’m from Bangladesh.”</p><p>He could tell her more, but the alarms are blasting in his mind.</p><p>How obvious is it that he’s a foreigner? He received the basic standard of education at an English-medium school, but does he still have a noticeable accent? He doesn’t like being watched so intently like this, especially by someone he only knows by name and association.</p><p>The feeling is alien and familiar all at once. He’s used to watching his back and never disclosing to peers where he’d head to in the late nights living in Bangladesh. He’s used to the evil eye of his Saudi employer. But the constant surveillance under American scrutiny is a different beast that Cyril still has trouble adjusting to.</p><p>Black vans indiscriminately linger through his neighborhood, and every time, he abruptly closes the blinds. Or he will see strange officers clad in black loitering outside of his masjid. Claude has always instructed Cyril to be careful about his digital presence, fearful that his visa will be jeopardized, so he’s opted out of social media almost entirely.</p><p>Cyril swallows his fear so he can continue engaging with the other woman.</p><p>“I’d still say that’s a solid background in understanding Lorenz’s tactics, since you’ve been directly impacted by his policy. What kind of work did you do in Bangladesh?”</p><p>Cyril checks her expression to make sure he isn’t misreading her. Is she honestly curious about him? Doesn’t she have to be focusing on whatever speech Claude is preparing to give? Cyril supposes she’ll ease up on the interrogation once Claude starts talking.</p><p>He ignores the exhausting realization that he is, yet again, counting on Claude to swoop in and alleviate his discomforts. Whether Claude does it intentionally or by virtue of being Khalid, always present, and always at the right time.</p><p>“I majored in Peace and Conflict Studies at the University of Dhaka. It was a mix between politics, history, and policy.” He doesn’t want to downplay his genuine interest in the field, but he also wants this conversation to be over. She blinks at him in wonder.</p><p>“Wow, there’s nothing like that at NYU. Well, unless you consider building your own major at Gallatin, but we don’t have an entire department designated to the subject. That sounds really similar to what I studied, actually! I majored in Political Science, Public Policy, and History.”</p><p>She’s close enough to him that he notices the matte finish of the black pearl hair ties she styles her hair with, and the gold buttons adorning her overall dress. She’s certainly passionate about her work and puts her full concentration into it, but still takes time to put herself together.</p><p>In a way, she reminds Cyril of himself.</p><p>“You’re real smart, aren’tcha. Just like Claude bhaiya.”</p><p>“O-Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. Claude is a total whiz at law, but don’t tell him I said that, okay? We don’t want it to get to his head.” Lysithea drops her voice to a whisper and shifts her eyes suspiciously, as if Claude is around to hear their conversation. Cyril’s lips curl, indulging her for a moment.</p><p>She starts speaking again. “Hey... if you don’t mind me asking, why did you leave Bangladesh?”</p><p>The moment leaves as quickly as it arrived.</p><p>“I didn’t like it there,” Cyril says tersely. Yeah. Didn’t like the riots, the government shutdowns, the police raids, the hate crimes. That’s the shortlist of reasons.</p><p>He’s boarded up the door leading him into the dungeon of his past. He was forced to recount enough of it for the lawsuit, and he doesn’t want to revisit it anytime soon.</p><p>“I see… hey, it looks like Claude is starting!” She taps his forearm energetically and he almost flinches at the touch. Sure enough, Claude is at the center of the clearing, holding a megaphone to his face. Cyril’s muscles relax at the sight.</p><p>Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Lysithea clamoring to find her phone. Didn’t she say earlier that she didn’t want to film Claude? She instead opens the Notes app, readying her fingers over the keyboard.</p><p><em>Ahh, she’s taking notes,</em> Cyril realizes. He wonders if he should be doing anything as field director. Claude did call Cyril an “organizer,” but what that really entails is beyond him.</p><p>Claude may be completely out of his mind running for Congress, but Cyril knows he must be there, at Claude’s side. There’s no way Cyril would let Claude run off and create chaos without Cyril there to keep him in check.</p><p>But it’s more than that, isn’t it?</p><p>From the moment he stepped foot on American soil, he struggled to build connections with others. And how could he not? This land is completely foreign to him, with a new set of rules to follow, cultural practices to abide by, and a convoluted system to understand. He could barely keep himself together, let alone reach out to others to befriend. Cyril’s previous lives didn’t offer much experience in the friendship department, either.</p><p>He uprooted everything in the wake of his parents’ deaths, just as he was about to head to university. Instead of gossiping with friends about what majors were the most interesting or what cute girls he had noticed at orientation, Cyril loaded a ratty suitcase and booked it to Saudi Arabia. Instead of poring over books, he scrubbed away at plates or cleaned hotel rooms. Instead of mingling with the other workers at opening hours, he’d watch families adorned in pure white make their way to the early morning call to prayer.</p><p>This was not the life he chose for himself, no.</p><p>Returning to Bangladesh, he was hopeful about re-establishing his life, and for a while, things were okay. He was still alone in the sense that he had no immediate family, but his acquaintances were glad to have him back, right? But he was cruelly reminded of how word gets around, how people whispered behind his back and speculated about his sexuality. Eyes followed him wherever he went, and suddenly people he used to call his friends were no longer by his side.</p><p>He can’t help but latch onto Claude.</p><p>Cyril has someone he can call family again. He can’t abandon Claude in his time of need.</p><p>The musical inflections in Claude’s voice snap Cyril back to reality. The sound of his voice comforts Cyril the same way he wraps himself in comforters in the unbearable winter, a warm and safe refuge from the outside world.</p><p>Cyril isn't much for politics, but he appreciates the artistry of speeches, especially Claude’s. He remembers Claude rehearsing passages in front of the bathroom mirror or practicing back-and-forth volleys with his colleagues in preparation for his lawsuits. There aren’t many fond memories from the time spanning his immigration case, but he does think back to Claude’s monologues in the courtroom with reverence.</p><p>“They tell us that we can have a fifteen dollar minimum wage, or have union jobs. I have one word for those choices: BULLSHIT! The only choice that we are facing—the true choice—is socialism, or barbarism.”</p><p>Cyril’s eyes go wide, but others hoot and cheer around him. <em>Is Khalid bhaiya allowed to use such harsh language in important speeches like this?</em> Cyril’s never seen anything like it before.</p><p>He reluctantly claps a few times before glancing at Lysithea’s reaction. She notices his inquisitive look and smiles proudly.</p><p>“He’s going off-script, but I’m not complaining. This is a good direction for the campaign. It sets us apart from Gloucester and the boring lot.”</p><p>“Gotcha,” Cyril replies meekly, not wanting to indicate his hesitancy. He doesn’t want Claude to be endangered by such brashness, especially so early on in the race. She gives him a reassuring nod, and he feels the tiniest tendril of warmth coil in his chest.</p><p>Lysithea doesn’t seem like the type to assume things about other people. She did sting him earlier by bringing up Bangladesh, but what does she know about his life’s story? Cyril appreciates that she doesn’t thrash about so sloppily through social conduct like Dimitri does. <em>Play nice,</em> bhaiya said. Fine. Cyril goes out on a limb.</p><p>“Lysithea, you seem to know a buncha stuff about what to say and do in politics. Is this one of the topics you’re super interested in?”</p><p>Lysithea perks up, her completely round eyes blinking back at him. Her cheeks tinge almost the same color as her eyes.</p><p>“Labor and workers’ rights are certainly important to me, but I wouldn’t say it’s my forte. No, I’m more interested in universal healthcare. I think that’s the topic I’m most passionate about.” Another sentence rises in her throat, but she shakes it off and concludes her statement with a tight-lipped smile. Her reticence piques his interest, and a smug kind of competitiveness blooms in Cyril. He wants to know what she’s holding back.</p><p>“Healthcare, huh. Dunno much about how that works in this country,” he says, shrugging. Lysithea’s brows furrow concernedly, and she lowers her phone to her side.</p><p>“And that’s exactly how it’s designed. It’s not fair that people like you, who aren’t entrenched in the semantics, can’t access such a basic human right, simply because healthcare is controlled by private insurance companies that want to make a buck off people’s suffering. The idea infuriates me!”</p><p>Cyril doesn’t think healthcare policy seems too dense of a topic, and attributes the lack of understanding to him simply not reading enough. Isn’t he partly to blame for not figuring out how things work around here? That’s why he needs Claude to demystify everything for him, right?</p><p>“And what about people with pre-existing conditions? They need those services the most. We shouldn’t have to beg for money on the internet to afford insulin or hydroxychloroquine, or rack up expenses for our family to pay off for the rest of our lives. That shouldn’t be normal in a dignified society.”</p><p>Lysithea’s voice dies down, her anger flaring and vanishing like a sparkler. Cyril feels he’s unintentionally struck a chord.</p><p>“Universal healthcare means a whole lot to you, doesn’t it?”</p><p>“Yeah...so I’m glad Claude supports my ideas for it. I didn’t think he’d agree to all my suggestions so openly. It makes me feel like my dream might come true, if I work hard to get him elected.” Lysithea looks up at Cyril. “What’s your dream, if Claude wins?”</p><p>His mind pauses, holding space for the question. Cyril’s dream <em>is</em> that Claude wins, but as for what comes after? Cyril has never placed much thought into the idea. That would mean Cyril has dreams beyond what he wants for his older brother. Or wondering what kind of future Cyril would want for himself. He isn’t used to thinking so far ahead. Every day he worries about small things like catching the train on time, or remembering to turn the stove off; and bigger things, like legal battles Claude watches closely to see if Cyril’s court case will have a couple darts thrown into it.</p><p>But big things? Like independence, like revolution? He can’t fathom a scale like that. It hurts his brain to even imagine. Movements like that are violent and messy, and they promise nothing on the other side. Bangladeshis believed so fiercely in that sapna, that dream, but freedom never arrived. Bangladesh remains in the throes of unrest, and it has been that way since 1971.</p><p>Cyril has tiny dreams that he can cup in his hands the way he holds dearly the wildflowers that sprout between the cracks on the train platform. He dreams about listening to the trains rumbling overhead, a lullaby for city-dwellers. He dreams about the elusive tuna chops that Claude brings from Neerob, snatching them up before anyone else.</p><p>He holds tight to the constancy of it all. He cherishes the normalcy, the mundane. No riots, no chaos, no fears that he won’t see tomorrow’s sunrise.</p><p>He doesn’t plan to leave some grand mark on society like Claude does, because people like him don’t set out to do things like that. He wants a simple, humble life, and doesn’t mind that people won’t remember him.</p><p>Cyril isn’t worth remembering, anyway.</p><p>“I dunno. There’s a lot I’m still thinking about, if he wins.”</p><p>As long as he can support Claude, that’s a dream big enough for him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>forgot to mention, claude's speech is inspired by a speech zohran mamdani gave last year! he's a NY assemblymember for astoria. go check him out!<br/><a href="https://twitter.com/celicalms/status/1370441965603581956">retweet here</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. A Kind of Silent Prayer</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Why does someone like Dimitri know so much about Claude, without Claude having said a word about himself? That kind of thrill, of relating to Claude in a way meaningful to him, feels more foreign than anyone else has made him feel. </p><p>A good foreign.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Claude spent most of the day with Cyril, but they haven’t <i>spent time</i> together. They’ve shuttled from one place to the next, people barging in and invading their privacy. And even if the intrusions were well-meaning, or unintentional, neither Cyril or Claude had a moment to stop in their tracks. To not think about strategy, or about performance, but simply to decompress and dive deep into their emotions. </p><p>That’s always been a struggle for both of them. </p><p>“So, what did you think of our first campaign event?” Claude prompts Cyril, who is busily texting. He doesn’t look up from his phone.</p><p>Claude clears his throat, his gaze unwavering.</p><p>Cyril looks up. “It was fine.” </p><p>“<i>Just</i> fine? Did you speak at all with Lysithea?” Claude’s voice edges on annoyance.</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>Not much for talking today, huh. Maybe Dimitri’s presence is discouraging him from sharing his true thoughts. That must be it. See, Claude’s got Cyril all figured out. </p><p>“There’s like, masjid stuff happening. I missed it while we were at the event, so I’m backreading the discussion.”</p><p>Never mind.</p><p>“Oh? Like what? Is there anything you want me to do to help?” Claude squints at Cyril’s screen, as if he could jump in mid-chat log and understand what’s going on. </p><p>Cyril tilts his screen just enough for the glare of the streetlights to stun Claude’s eyes. </p><p>“Nothin’ you’d know about or be able to help with, bhaiya.”</p><p>He returns to his phone.  </p><p>Claude refuses to make eye contact with Dimitri: Cyril’s petulance is the last thing he wants Dimitri seeing first-hand. <i>Manush ki bolbe,</i> Claude wants to retort. What will people think? The phrase that motivates families to hide away their traumas, their messiness. The judgment of the hypothetical ‘manush’ that drives queer brown kids right back into the closet. </p><p>But maybe some manush don’t need to know about their business. Claude grits his teeth. </p><p>The entrance to the parking garage looks like a wind tunnel, its gaping mouth swallowing cars into a black nothingness. The little tollbooth has a lonely lightbulb swinging from the top, but no one is inside to assist. That seems to be the brightest source of light in the entire facility—the rest is lit pitifully with bulbs that should have probably been replaced years ago. It’s always unsettling wandering the levels anytime past the evening. Claude always has the feeling that someone could jump him from behind a car in an ambush. He hopes Cyril remembers his level number and row. </p><p>“Do you want me to walk back with you to your car?” Claude asks instead, and Cyril exhales loudly. </p><p>“I don’t need you to look after me.” Cyril huffs, swinging his lanyard around dangerously between them. </p><p>“Alright, well... khudafez, Cyru! Text me when you get home, okay?” Claude calls after Cyril, who has already swiveled around with his back turned to his brother.</p><p>“As if I won’t. Khudafez, bhaiya.” </p><p>He flashes a peace sign and disappears between the rows of cars. Claude has already kept Cyril too long and doesn’t need him to stay for his debrief with Dimitri. He knows Cyril’s tolerance for Dimitri (and Claude too, for that matter) has reached its daily limit. Claude hopes Cyril warms up to Dimitri as the campaign goes on, but Claude understands how tiresome being around Dimitri can get. </p><p>Like right about now.</p><p>“Claude, that word you just used right now, ‘khudafez.’ That’s Farsi, is it not? I was under the impression that the typical greeting and farewell word was ‘assalamualaikum,’ which is Arabic.” Dimitri says. </p><p>“I think it started out as Farsi, yeah, but it’s used throughout South Asia.” Claude says casually, masking his fatigue with a vague sense of interest in the topic. </p><p>“I understand. So do you speak any Farsi or Arabic?” </p><p>Claude finds himself at the crossroads of a decision. Does he tell Dimitri about his parents? Does Dimitri already <i>know</i> about his parents? Again and again, Claude’s history struggles free from his protective hands, desperate to be known, and Claude scrambles to keep it within his grasp, like taming a fickle cat. </p><p>He rubs the bridge of his nose to alleviate an oncoming headache. Is it from these intrusive questions, or from a day of running from one job to the next? </p><p>“I know a bit of Farsi from my mom’s side, but I’m better at Bangla. Cyril’s the only one who knows Arabic. Uh, and you, of course.” </p><p>The joy flooding Dimitri’s expression almost makes the tiny reveal worth it. </p><p>“Oh! I didn’t realize your mother is Iranian. I’ll have to talk to you more about that, but I’m quite tired from the day’s work.” </p><p><i>No kidding,</i> Claude thinks. Dimitri lazily unties his hair and his layered blonde locks fall around his face messily, perfectly framing his jawline. Claude looks away in an act of both irritation and awkwardness, pretending as if he’s thinking about something profound. <i>Pack it up, Abercrombie.</i></p><p>“Before we head back to discuss the protest from today, do you want to grab something to eat?”</p><p>“Sure! It’s rather late though, I doubt any restaurants have seating at this time. It’s a weekend evening…” </p><p>The two stand idly, thinking about their meager prospects. Claude isn’t too keen on going out to dinner with his energy drained and his senses off-balance. He’s already talking more than he should. </p><p>“If you’re open to it, we could just get something from a halal cart and take it back to my place.” Claude suggests, hoping Dimitri agrees and doesn’t instead drag him to some glitzy restaurant. </p><p>“Certainly! Let’s walk around a little. I know a guy nearby,” Dimitri places his hand on Claude’s shoulder, nudging him in the direction he’s walking. Claude tries not to think about how gentle Dimitri’s touch is in contrast with his deathgrip handshakes Claude is all too familiar with. He distracts himself.</p><p>“I almost forgot you moved to the Bronx. I respect the dedication.” Claude comments, keeping pace with Dimitri’s gait.</p><p>“It’d be a little silly if I were unable to vote for my own candidate. But I appreciate your respect nonetheless.” Dimitri replies. “Massachusetts may be my place of birth, but New York feels much more like home for me.” </p><p>Claude perks up, attentive to this new information. “Why is that?” </p><p>“I experienced the greatest personal growth during my undergraduate years. Before then, I was only really exposed to the politics of my immediate family and friends. Massachusetts isn’t exactly known for its diversity, as you well know.” Dimitri glances at Claude. Claude’s expression discloses nothing.</p><p>“That’s not to say Columbia doesn’t have its set of problems. After all, it’s an Ivy League school, teeming with J. Crew’s pick of snobby New England boys, myself included.” Dimitri twirls the fringe of his scarf around his index finger, this time averting Claude’s gaze. </p><p>Claude snorts, unable to hide his admiration for Dimitri’s honesty. At least he’s self-aware. </p><p>“It was a tipping point for me, especially considering my interests and the classes I enrolled in. I wanted to understand more about my father’s work, and with that, uncover the reality of his policies. The extent to which he disrupted peace abroad.” Dimitri grows solemn, once again taking up his blue scarf between his fingers. Claude only nods. </p><p>The effort to unlearn, to truly understand...it’s strangely endearing. Dimitri isn’t an idiot, and he isn’t oblivious. He’s done the reading. He can come off as a little...quirky, at times, a bit over-enthusiastic about things that literally no one else would care about, but Claude knows it’s from his curiosity and not from a place of superiority.</p><p>In a world where Claude’s identity is whitesplained back to him, Dimitri’s sincere excitement is a breath of fresh air. He’s never felt Dimitri attempt to “impress” Claude with his library of exotic knowledge. In fact, coming from Dimitri, it doesn’t feel exotic so much as it does...eccentric. Why does someone like Dimitri know so much about Claude, without Claude having said a word about himself? That kind of thrill, of relating to Claude in a way meaningful to him, feels more foreign than anyone else has made him feel. </p><p>A good foreign. </p><p>“Assalamualaikum. How is everything?” Dimitri jogs to the front of a halal cart, extending his hand through the narrow window. A middle-aged man with a graying beard pokes his head out and takes Dimitri’s hand heartily. The man clasps Dimitri’s hands in his and pats them tenderly, spilling a string of words in Arabic, and the two chat jovially, like old friends. </p><p>Claude shuts his gaping jaw. Dimitri motions for Claude to approach the truck. </p><p>“Claude...you are Muslim?” The man asks, leaning against the countertop. Does Claude look the part? Is his melanin, in contrast to Dimitri’s pearly complexion, such an easy giveaway? Claude puts on his professional smile and nods.</p><p>“You will do great things for Bronx. Be strong! You have a good man supporting you.” The uncle clenches his fist and grins brightly. </p><p>Ah. The uncle hadn’t just guessed—Dimitri had told him, either just now or during his multiple other encounters. Claude only knows how to laugh and thank him profusely, the Asian, feminine docility overtaking the rest of his programming. </p><p>The overly courteous side to him, the obedient, ingratiating part of him, tells him that he doesn’t deserve such praise, not for something he hasn’t even done yet. To think that others find Claude dependable...Claude, the Bangla boy, who will supposedly present the people’s demands to Congress. Claude, who avoids even his little brother’s masjid because he hasn’t reconciled his rocky relationship with Islam. Claude, whose campaign manager is more personable and should be running in his stead. He is wholly unfit for office, both in his own eyes and in the eyes of the establishment.</p><p>Claude feels the hairs raise on his forearms, his skin cold and unreal against his jacket. The entire situation feels so...bizarre? Why do people have such high hopes for him? And why the hell does Dimitri probably know more about his own history and culture than he does? Claude wants to feel jealous, but instead he’s left with a confusing mess of intrigue and distress.</p><p>The gyro and rice warm Claude’s hands through the flimsy styrofoam, and he relishes in the sensations. It’s hard to fully relax when Dimitri is around, but the momentary silence is reassuring. He wonders what Dimitri’s breakdown of Claude’s speech will be. How does the newcomer Claude hold up against Dimitri’s big chops? Was Claude’s performance “acceptable” today?</p><p>His brief moment of rest is interrupted by a pesky vibration from his coat pocket. Dimitri notices the sound too, and Claude juggles his container in his hands, struggling to find his phone. </p><p>“Here, let me take care of that for you,” Dimitri says, and just as Claude fumbles his grip on the precious meal, Dimitri saves it from demise. </p><p>The message from Cyril simply reads “home now”. Claude feels the tension leave his shoulders.</p><p>“Is it Cyril?” Dimitri asks, now cradling both takeout boxes. </p><p>“Yeah, it’s nothing serious. He just let me know he got home safely.” Claude says, unable to mask his relief. He looks up at the peaks of the skyscrapers against the darkened sky and exhales, his vision fogging.</p><p>He could get used to this—easing up on his defenses. As long as Claude isn’t caught off-guard in the process, that is. And really, he’s going to spend so much time with Dimitri, there’s sure to be a moment when Dimitri will see him exhausted or emotionally vulnerable, right? </p><p>Well, hopefully never! But the option still remains, if Claude wants.</p><p>“I’m glad to hear he returned safely. He seems to mean a great deal to you beyond simply his value to the campaign,” Dimitri comments. An observation. Hm. Claude makes a mental note of that.</p><p>Claude settles on “You could put it that way, yes,” as a response. He hopes Dimitri doesn’t press him further on the topic, knowing his stamina is low.</p><p>Thankfully, he doesn’t. The two resume walking in silence, leaving Claude alone with his thoughts. Cyril has been oppositional as of late, especially in front of people he doesn’t know well, like Dimitri. He wants to ask Cyril if any stressors have flared up recently, but the subject isn’t so easily broached. Or Claude could take that as a sign that Cyril’s getting used to Dimitri’s presence and feels more comfortable being rude with him in front of strangers. </p><p>At the same time, Cyril has been quieter about sharing thoughts about things that matter to him. He at once says too much and too little. </p><p>Claude sees Dimitri stop from his periphery, and Claude stumbles a few steps forward before turning back to him. </p><p>“Is something the matter?” Claude asks. Dimitri stands directly under a street lamp, and his blonde hair glows white under the light. Particles of dust drift gently around them, glowing like stardust. In their silence, their anchoring in the present, time flows languidly, like Claude has walked out of a dream. Dimitri tenses, strengthening his grip on the styrofoam containers ever so slightly more. </p><p>“You know, Claude...you’re always rushing from one place to the next. We can slow down, and take time to simply walk. Focus not on the destination, or the debrief, or even campaign plans for tomorrow. Take in information from as many senses as you can.” Dimitri says slowly. </p><p>Claude’s brows twist in confusion. Was his ruminating so plainly obvious that Dimitri requests a <i>mindfulness technique</i> from him? The last thing he expected from his campaign manager was yoga instructions. This is more of a thing he does one-to-one with his therapist, but Dimitri must have some sort of goal for this little exercise. So he’ll entertain it. </p><p>“Sure thing, your Kingliness. I can do that, no problem.” Claude replies evenly. He brings a small smile to Dimitri’s face, and his grip on the gyros relaxes. </p><p>“I appreciate it.” Dimitri joins Claude’s side and the two walk in step. Claude cycles through his senses, parsing the most distinct sensations from each. He listens intently to the soft squishing sounds of his and Dimitri’s sneakers against the sidewalk, and the low buzz of the lights as they pass by porches illuminating their path. He looks to the sky and spots the hazy glow of the moon behind clouds. Besides the immediate smell of slow-cooked lamb, he breathes in the cold air, crisp from the reduced traffic of the evening.</p><p>The exercise quickens time, and they board the elevator back to Claude’s apartment before he knows it. Claude removes his shoes at the doorway, and Dimitri hands the takeout boxes to Claude so he can do the same. Claude’s gaze shifts to Dimitri as he sets the table. Dimitri clears his throat.</p><p>“Claude. I have an inquiry for you.” He begins mysteriously. </p><p>“I want to know why you want to win. I don’t want you to convince me of why you think you <i>can</i> win—I already know you can. I want to know what drives you, what is burning you up so brightly to feel the need to play this electoral game. No one with no political experience runs for office if something isn’t compelling them to do so.”</p><p>This should be simple. There are no tricks to this answer. </p><p>“Well that’s easy. I want to be a champion of communities of color, and I want to advocate for policies that protect and uplift working class families,” Claude replies in a heartbeat. But Dimitri shakes his head, fluffing his blonde hair. </p><p>“That is evident to me. What I’m interested in is what motivates you personally. We all have instances or people that were tipping points for our galvanization. I’ve already shared that unearthing the cruelties of my father led me down this path. Do you have anything like what I have described to you?” </p><p>Dimitri gathers his golden locks in one hand and ties a messy bun so he can dig into his dinner.</p><p>Claude hasn’t touched his food yet. Such a question has extinguished any sort of appetite he had before. Was there a single moment when Claude knew he had to run? And if so, when did it begin? </p><p>He thinks back to his middle school days, of arguing with little white brats on the playground about Islamophobia during election season. In high school, when Claude competed in Model UN competitions only to be confronted with schools, entire legions of white thought. Could those moments have been key to Claude’s decision? Or is the moment more recent, in Claude’s adulthood, in which the culmination of his experiences spurred him to run?</p><p>The answer to Dimitri’s question isn’t immediately obvious to him. But Claude knows that expressing it, no matter what it is, will require him to be forthcoming with Dimitri. And he isn’t ready. That would mean making sense of everything that Claude is, everything that Claude holds dear to him.</p><p>Claude is Khalid. Khalid, despite all his gripes, is unapologetically Muslim. But Claude is a “tolerable,” “moral,” “moderate” Muslim. He’s one of the good ones, who doesn’t ruffle any feathers and whenever prompted will condemn acts of terrorism and thinks American democracy works. Or something. </p><p>He doesn’t think he can win, but he’s running anyway. Why? </p><p>“I’ll have to get back to you on that one, big guy,” Claude finally says, smearing the red and white sauces across his rice, watching the colors bleed together. He’s at as much of a loss as Dimitri is, who eyes him intently between chunky morsels of lamb. </p><p>For once, his reticence is an honest one.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>this chapter is posted on bangladesh's 50th anniversary of independence! super cool to be working on a story so closely tied to my country's history, with influence as the grandchild of a mukti bahini/freedom fighter. joy bangla!<br/><a href="https://twitter.com/celicalms/status/1375492745507184648">retweet fic</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Sanctuary</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In growing closer to Lysithea, Cyril negotiates his trust in her, over and over. They find common ground: in words they hold dear, in places they call sanctuaries.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Including a TW for panic attack in this chapter. Take care when reading.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The towering stone columns are the New York Public Library’s most prominent feature. Cyril strains his neck to appreciate the flower-like ornamentation at their peaks, noting their weathered ivory shade. They’re dirtied by the city smog, yet regal all the same. Cyril has no idea how long this library has been here, but he’s sure Lysithea knows its precise history.</p>
<p>The pillars remind him of Masjid an-Nabawi in Madinah, when his kafeel placed him to work there. The prophet’s masjid is home to the most beautiful surah recitations, rivalling even Makkah, but he’d never admit it to anyone. That’s between him and Allah. </p>
<p>After each rakkah, Cyril would stare at the marble and gold columns that stretched on into the horizon. Each pillar was adorned with multiple lanterns, but the pure white marble seemed to illuminate the rest of the masjid. He could close his eyes, sink his body into the plush rugs, and listen to the hum of the world’s languages around him. The ummah, the shared community by virtue of being Muslim, and their gathering in this place of refuge brought him so much serenity. </p>
<p>Visiting the NYPL probably feels the same for Lysithea. </p>
<p>Cyril doesn’t understand what Lysithea wants him around for, but he’s looking forward to spending time with her. She could have easily video-called him to ask him questions or sent him an email. But Cyril isn’t complaining. He likes listening to her spin wondrous tales about political rivalries, or triumphs over evil. Cyril never really liked the dryness of his history textbooks, but with Lysithea, he feels eager to learn more about the world. </p>
<p>Lysithea clears her throat, guiding him through the echoing halls.</p>
<p>“I was able to book us a private study room. That way, we’ll be able to talk about your field scripts and my policy briefs without disturbing anyone else.” She states, her silvery hair rippling behind her.</p>
<p>Cyril’s eyebrows wrinkle with confusion. “I didn’t know the NYPL still offered access to the private study rooms.” </p>
<p>Lysithea shifts her eyes and puffs her chest proudly. </p>
<p>“They don’t. I come here so often that all the librarians know me, and they gave me access. I even requested some books in advance so they should be there when we arrive.” </p>
<p>Cyril mirrors Lysithea’s smile. She really is a bookworm. But it’s a good skill to have, and she’s a valuable asset to Claude’s campaign. He wishes he cared as much about reading bland texts as Lysithea does, so he’d be able to help Claude in another sense. Cyril catches himself before the thought continues.</p>
<p>It always circles back to him, doesn’t it?</p>
<p>Why can’t Cyril shake his dependence on Claude? </p>
<p>Cyril should be grateful for Claude’s generosity, his unconditional benevolence, his steadfast love. But he’s sick of the immigration case. Cyril had to play up his life’s tragedies, had to “prove” his “gayness” to the court so his plea for political asylum could be considered legitimate. No one who has interviewed Cyril has ever asked, “What now? What comes next for you?” It’s always about the Supreme Court, about trauma, about <i>Claude.</i> </p>
<p>Claude always finds his way to the spotlight, the center of attention. Like when he told Cyril to leave his position as director of Assalam. There is no chance in hell that Cyril would abandon his masjid, this beautiful space that he created by himself. For himself. </p>
<p>At least Lysithea asked about his dream. But he still doesn’t have an answer.</p>
<p>Lysithea’s voice snaps him from his thoughts.</p>
<p>“And...we’re here!”</p>
<p>Cyril steps through the doorway. The room has a long mahogany table and stately-looking chairs flanking either side. Cyril inhales, comforted by the smell of old pages and well-worn wood. The walls are lined with different series of books, and Cyril wonders when the last time someone cracked one open was. Maybe they hold secrets that not even the internet can answer.</p>
<p>Sure enough, a neatly stacked pile of books sits at the table’s edge. Lysithea jumps and squeaks with excitement. She barrels to the other side, misjudging the narrow breadth of the room and crashing into Cyril’s chest. </p>
<p>“AAGHH!! Ow ow ow, I did not mean for that to happen,” she says, rubbing her nose furiously. Cyril gently grasps her shoulders, but she shields her face. She’s flushed a light shade of pink.</p>
<p>“Careful now, we don’t want the princess getting hurt.” He can’t help but chuckle. Lysithea turns even redder and shoves Cyril playfully, but he doesn’t budge a centimeter.</p>
<p>“I’m no princess! I can handle myself just fine.” </p>
<p>“You’re the princess of policy for King Claude’s campaign,” Cyril jokes. </p>
<p>“He better not be king. This isn’t what I signed up for,” she mumbles, both her ego and her nose still sore. She scurries to the books and places her tote bag across from her, its gold logo glinting in the light. Lysithea motions for Cyril to sit next to her, and he dutifully joins her and unloads his bag. </p>
<p>Cyril sneaks a glance at Lysithea as he sets his computer up. Her soft white hair spills over her shoulder onto her chest, hiding her expression. She’s probably still embarrassed about slamming into him. </p>
<p>Cyril’s eyes widen in horror as she pulls a crimson-dotted tissue from her face.</p>
<p>“Lysithea?! Is that blood?! Are you alright?” Cyril exclaims, startling Lysithea. She pulls another tissue from her bag and pinches her nose.</p>
<p>“No no, Cyril, please, it’s okay, this happens all the time. Just give it a few minutes and I’ll be alright.” Her voice is warped and nasally, and does nothing to reassure Cyril. His hands hover between her figure and his bag.</p>
<p>“What do you mean, this happens all the time?! Did I hurt you when you bumped into me? I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have teased you about it—”</p>
<p>“Cyril. It’s <i>fine</i>. I have, like, this <i>thing,</i> it makes me bruise easily. Please stop thinking about me and start whatever you were going to work on.” Lysithea grabs a couple more tissues, forming a little graveyard of red wads on the table’s corner. His eyes dart rapidly between the pile and her face, now only partially hidden by her hair. Not a drop of red has marred her white locks.</p>
<p>“What <i>thing</i>, I don’t understand what you’re saying! What does that even mean?!” His cheeks are hot with frustration and his mind swirls in chaos. </p>
<p>“I have lupus, okay?! It messes up my blood count, along with a bunch of other things. It’ll end soon. Please, Cyril.” </p>
<p>Lysithea finally looks towards him, pushing the hair out of her eyes. Her rosy irises plead Cyril to desist. Her current tissue doesn’t look like it has much red on it now, and Cyril places his hands on his thighs, his shoulders still taut with stress.</p>
<p>“I don’t know what lupus is,” he confesses. She shakes her head, inspecting the bloody contents of her tissue. </p>
<p>“Don’t blame yourself. It’s an autoimmune condition. I’ve had it since I was in high school.” She says. Her bleeding seems to have stopped. “I didn’t want you to worry.”</p>
<p>“Uncontrollable bleeding isn’t the best way to get me to not worry. Do you want me to throw these out for you? Let’s free up some desk space.” Cyril motions to the used tissues. Lysithea scrambles to block Cyril from reaching them.</p>
<p>“No way! I’m not letting you near these.” She bunches the tissues up, wrapping them with a clean one before tossing them in the trash. She sits down and smooths out her dress, feigning some sense of normalcy. Cyril rests his chin in his hand, peering at Lysithea.</p>
<p>“Is that why you like universal healthcare so much? I can only imagine how annoying it is to go to the doctor all the time, and all that other medical stuff.” He asks candidly. Lysithea makes fists into her legs, wrinkling the thick fabric under her palms.</p>
<p>“Yeah. I don’t think people with chronic illnesses or mental health problems or pre-existing conditions should be punished financially for their genetics. Who knew?” She says, averting her gaze. He cocks his head in confusion.</p>
<p>“Ya seem pretty well-off, from the looks of it. How bad has this lupus stuff been for you?” </p>
<p>Lysithea sputters into a flustered mess of unfinished sentences.</p>
<p>“I’m—that’s not—I don’t want to sound like I’m complaining, because I have it pretty good. My parents pay for everything, and I can run home crying to them if something ever happens to me,” she says, almost frustrated at herself. </p>
<p>“Look. I’ve got this privilege. So I’ve got to use it for good! I can’t just sit back and live,” she spits, “L-live off my parents. I want this broken body to be of some use to others.”</p>
<p>Cyril stares at Lysithea, her eyes full of determination. How can someone so well-spoken, so well-read, consider herself so lowly? </p>
<p>“I don’t think you’re broken,” Cyril says slowly, hoping his words come across as genuine. She may have a silver spoon in her mouth, but her heart is in the right place.</p>
<p>Lysithea stares mutely ahead at her laptop. </p>
<p>They sit in silence for a while, with Cyril switching between multiple tabs on his screen, trying to make sense of the documents Claude forwarded to him. Claude drafted preliminary phone banking scripts that Cyril will use during outreach, but the terms are only vaguely familiar. He spends most of his time reading up on the history behind certain ideas like “federal jobs guarantee” and “tuition-free public college.” </p>
<p>It would be much faster to ask Lysithea, wouldn’t it? </p>
<p>A quick glance at Lysithea rules out the option straight away. She seems totally absorbed in her work, her books strewn in a semicircle and her laptop to the side. Her eyes scan across the pages quickly, and her fingers nimbly jot notes down. Cyril can’t see the headers of the tabs on her internet browser because of how many different windows she has open, but she seems to know the exact location of every website and document. </p>
<p>But Cyril wants his questions answered in the quickest way possible, and talking to Lysithea would be way more convenient than painstakingly sifting through progressive policy briefs. Cyril didn’t realize how wordy some of these guys could be. Especially that Sylvain guy. </p>
<p>“Hey, Lysithea? D’you mind helping me out with something?” Cyril asks. Lysithea swivels on her seat to face him and gives her full attention. </p>
<p>“What’s up, Cyril?” </p>
<p>“I don’t get a lot of these ideas that Claude wants me to talk about. If it isn’t too much trouble, could you explain them to me?” Cyril says, sliding his computer so Lysithea can have a better look. She places her index finger to her bottom lip as she absorbs the information. </p>
<p>“I’m happy to help. So this first concept, about the federal jobs…” </p>
<p>Cyril understands some of what Lysithea tells him. A basic explanation of the idea, followed by its importance and relevance in modern society. But the deeper they venture into the details, the faster the words slip from him as she speaks. Lysithea pulls up yet another tab on her already-saturated browser to confirm a specific definition, and a sudden uncomfortable warmth suffocates the room. Cyril feels a drop of sweat form at the top of his eyebrow and swipes it from his forehead. It’s so difficult to follow along, and he grabs his laptop back in the middle of a spiel.</p>
<p>“Hey, I’m sorry I bothered ya. I don’t think I’m following too good. I guess I’ll get bhaiya to explain this to me later,” he mutters, searching through Sylvain’s policy briefs once more. He’ll have to grit his teeth and make it through the jargon. </p>
<p>Lysithea gently rests the tips of her fingers on his forearm, signaling him to pull back from the computer. </p>
<p>“Don’t be sorry; maybe I’m not saying things in the most logical way. Where did things start getting confusing for you?” </p>
<p>Cyril simply shakes his head. He focuses on her light touch on his arm, the rest of his surroundings melting away. </p>
<p>“Nah, you’re not the problem. I think...I just gotta work harder, that’s all.” </p>
<p>“If something is difficult for you, it might be a problem with the material, not a problem with you. It’s okay if you’re not getting it immediately.” </p>
<p>“Well, I don’t think it’s okay. I’ve gotta help Claude bhaiya, but I’ve never worked on a campaign before. I’ve never even led a phone bank. But you, and Dimitri, and bhaiya too, all of you have done stuff like this before. I just... wanna be useful.” </p>
<p>Lysithea’s eyebrows knit with sympathy. She nods, encouraging him to continue. </p>
<p>“I don’t belong on the campaign. I wish bhaiya chose someone who knows what they’re doing. I don’t even really belong here in the States, I’m just here ‘cause life’s a little easier than it was in Bangladesh.” </p>
<p>Her gaze softens, and she places a soothing hand on his shoulder. </p>
<p>“You know, technically neither of us are supposed to be here. Without my medical treatment, I’d be bedridden, or in the hospital, or worse. And the U.S. has done so much to keep immigrants out, yet you still found a way here.” </p>
<p>Cyril’s amber eyes meet her rose ones. There’s real sincerity in her: he can sense it from her small, reassuring smile. </p>
<p>“You belong on this campaign as much as anyone else does, Cyril. I didn’t think I would get this position, either. I mean, really, Claude’s work as an immigration lawyer places him leagues above me in experience. The work he’s done for queer asylum seekers alone should make him electable.” She says, her pearly hair accessories bouncing softly against her dark blouse. </p>
<p>“You heard about that case?” Cyril asks incredulously. She sits upright, retracting her hand from his shoulder. He ignores the instant longing for her warm touch to return.</p>
<p>“<i>Heard</i> of it? I’ve got it memorized cover-to-cover. I suppose it’s only well-known in the policy world, but Claude’s method of argumentation is untouchable. And that case spurred such a landmark decision; I’d be foolish to have joined his campaign without reading the full manuscript beforehand.” She explains matter-of-factly. </p>
<p>Cyril can feel the hairs rise on his arms, an unsettling chill creeping through his body. He doesn’t want her to continue. He can already tell by the way his eyes are losing focus on the tiny text of his screen, and his lashes fluttering from the suddenly hazy lights. He clenches his clammy hands, and his shirt feels cold against his skin.</p>
<p>How easy it is to recount, he thinks. How sanitized the story becomes. </p>
<p>A working class boy from Bangladesh whose parents are killed in a factory fire. Who’s shipped to Saudi for indenture to make up the costs, whose return home is rife with homophobia and the threat of arrest and—</p>
<p>He can find queer community only in the dead of the night in abandoned factories and empty parking lots and—</p>
<p>His life is defined by sudden university closures and riots and raids and living day to day with a target on his back and—</p>
<p>Cyril bursts out laughing, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. His breath shudders and his chest heaves from gasping in between laughing fits. Lysithea looks at him mortified.</p>
<p>“What could possibly be funny about any of this?” She says, furrowing her eyebrows. </p>
<p>Cyril swipes a tear from his eye, still reeling. “God, it sounds so fake. It’s like a Bollywood movie.” </p>
<p>Lysithea’s eyes flash like quartzes, sharp with fury. </p>
<p>“This is SUCH a serious topic Cyril, I don’t see what’s funny. You’re being so insensitive right now.” </p>
<p>Her indignation makes him want to laugh even harder. What does Lysithea know about the gravity of his court case? She’s one of those suburban liberals who listens to NPR, who says they’re an ally and has a “COEXIST” bumper sticker on their minivan. They love trying “authentic” restaurants but only in some high-rise in Chelsea, and wouldn’t dare set foot in the “urban” parts of the city. They lament the poor living conditions of developing countries while clicking “Add to Cart” on their online shopping sprees. What makes her so angry about something she’s never had to deal with in her life? </p>
<p>“That’s my case.” He states plainly. The amusement has drained from his body. </p>
<p>Lysithea blinks hard, not registering Cyril’s words. </p>
<p>“What?” </p>
<p>“That’s how I left Bangladesh. The client, their initials. Do you still remember them from the manuscript?”</p>
<p>Lysithea searches Cyril’s face, scouring her memory. Her chest visibly rises and falls.</p>
<p>“‘CA.’ He was referred to as CA.” Lysithea replies hesitantly. </p>
<p>Her face goes paler than it already is, and her lips part slightly in shock. </p>
<p>“Cyril Azim.” </p>
<p>Cyril abruptly turns back to his computer. He knows he won’t be able to focus on deciphering the scripts that Claude sent him, but it’s easier to pretend than to face reality head-on.</p>
<p>“It’s fine, we don’t have to talk about it anymore,” Cyril says, eyes falling on his screen. Lysithea reaches out her hand to assuage him, but he reflexively withdraws.</p>
<p>“Cyril, I’m so sorry, I...I didn’t realize that the court case was about you. If it brought up any bad memories, I—”</p>
<p>“Look. <i>I</i> don’t want to talk about it.” Cyril asserts. She tucks her hand into the corner of her arm and turns from Cyril to face the desk. </p>
<p>“I understand,” she merely replies. Cyril isn’t sure if she really does anymore.</p>
<p>He tries focusing on the individual letters that make up each word on the page, distracting himself from his churning emotions. The storm inches closer and closer to the front of his mind, and his pupils fixate on the little curl of the lowercase “a” that dips down to form the letter. It reminds him of the Bangla alphabet, and he explores the rest of the document for other visual similarities between the two languages. </p>
<p>Cyril’s concentration is interrupted by the loud clacking of Lysithea’s keyboard as she types away intensely. He knows he isn’t getting any work done compared to her, but at this point he doesn’t care. Claude will tell him what to do, where to look for resources, and everything will be fine again. </p>
<p>Unexpectedly, Lysithea hops off her seat and disappears out the door. Cyril is overcome with the sudden urge to chase her, but he remembers she’s left all her belongings behind. <i>Phew, so she isn’t leaving.</i> His eyes drift back to the computer screen, the bright white of the document numbing his vision. </p>
<p>After what seems like both minutes and hours, Lysithea returns, a hefty stack of books obfuscating her face. With a grunt, she drops the books on the table’s surface and plops back into her seat. </p>
<p>What could she have spent so long looking for that wasn’t already in her current fortress of books? The stacks remind him of building blocks for children. <i>This is her playground, after all.</i></p>
<p>His eyes sting from the stress, but he strains his view anyway. He wants a hint of what she’s reading about now. The cover of the book offers nothing for him, the binding a rusty red color. The spine of the book has “THE LOST HISTORIES OF” in a sans serif font, but Lysithea’s hand covers the rest of the title. </p>
<p>Lysithea crosses her legs to adjust her posture, settling more comfortably in her seat. Her sheer stocking stretches from the tension. Cyril spies a tiny rip at her inner thigh, a flash of pale skin, and quickly averts his eyes. </p>
<p>There’s really no use. Cyril isn’t getting anywhere trying to tip-toe around the subject. He’s still loathe to talk, but curiosity gets the best of him. He stuffs his tumultuous feelings down once again, he takes a deep breath. </p>
<p>“Whatcha reading, Lysithea?”</p>
<p>She seems alarmed that Cyril is even gracing her with conversation, but looks up from her lap to meet his gaze. </p>
<p>“Who, me?” She asks, startled. Cyril smirks, looking around the room for show.</p>
<p>“Yes, you.” He responds. </p>
<p>“W-Well, it’s called <i>The Lost Histories of South Asian America.</i> I thought it’d be an apt place to start in my learning. It’s important to understand the historical context of Claude’s background. You know, to get a sense of the precedent he’s setting.” </p>
<p>Her tone is sober, but Cyril can see right through her.</p>
<p>“Are you sure you’re reading it for Claude bhaiya, and not for another Bangladeshi guy you might know of?” </p>
<p>Lysithea tightens her grip on the book cover, a light blush dusting her cheeks.</p>
<p>“It can be about you if you want, b-but this is strictly for the campaign! Seriously!”</p>
<p>Yep, she’s overcompensating. Cyril shakes his head and laughs gently. </p>
<p>He’s never had someone try hard for him. No one has ever given him a second glance, looked closer to see who he is. Past the fog of media coverage, past the queer Muslim dude running a mosque. </p>
<p>At once, Cyril’s entire life is revealed to Lysithea, and she doesn’t press him further. No, she picks up a book and gets to reading. Cyril can’t imagine the unease it feels to read the entire brief of his case. He can barely fathom his own lived experiences. But in an attempt to tame the storm, to regain control, she dives into the pages. </p>
<p>Like a prayer, she returns over and over to her books. To make sense of the chaotic world they are subject to. </p>
<p>Sometimes the words mean nothing to him. He’ll whisper “Bismillahir Rahmanir Rahim,” like muscle memory, like running fingertips over weathered book spines, but that’s all it is to him. A feeling. Cyril doesn’t know what he’s looking for between surahs, but maybe if he keeps trying, keeps repeating them to himself, their significance will reveal themselves. </p>
<p>And sometimes they do. And he feels the clouds recede, the tempest subside. Like the sunlight filtering in through the south-facing windows of his dear Masjid Assalam, the clarity freshens his mind and the light warms his cheeks.</p>
<p>It’s okay if Lysithea wants to find that place, too, where she can understand why Cyril is the way he is. He’s not sure if he can open up just yet, but until then, her books will serve as meditation.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>the book that lysithea's reading is a reference to bengali harlem by vivek bald which I shamefully haven't finished reading because it is dry as hell. who wants to start a book club w me so I can force myself to finish it :D</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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